


Why We’re Here

by SquigglyAverageJoe



Series: IjustreallywanttofindawaytowriteaboutredemptionandshitandIhavemanyfanficideas. [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And I don’t know why, Angel Dust’s family is mentioned, Charlie’s trying. Vaggie’s trying. They’re both trying., Debt, Drug Addiction, Drugs, Fat Nuggets reminded me how badly I want a teacup pig, Hell, I don’t get why everyone thinks Alastor is so hot, I just want to have a pet I can love and pick up, I know just about the whole fandom does, I really fucking hate Valentino, I tried to keep him in character, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It’s just Angel Dust reflecting on how fucked up his family is, Mentioned Cannibalism, Murder, Past Character Death, Poor Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Vox is right he’s a rat bastard, We all know what Valentino did to Angel Dust, and on a related note, because I mean, because I think Vox is much hotter, but I have no upper body strength :(, but they don’t really play much of a role, but ugh, they’re in Hell yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:26:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SquigglyAverageJoe/pseuds/SquigglyAverageJoe
Summary: I watched the Hazbin Hotel pilot about a month ago, and holy fuck, do I love it—specifically Angel Dust, and I wrote this for like, one joke, and it evolved into this, and I’m really proud of it.
Series: IjustreallywanttofindawaytowriteaboutredemptionandshitandIhavemanyfanficideas. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107536
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Why We’re Here

If you asked Angel Dust, the bar was the best part about the hotel.

Granted, the hotel was a little rundown, and he wasn’t too optimistic about the idea of redemption—it seemed nigh impossible, and he really wasn’t sure if he even wanted to be redeemed, since he was definitely in hell for a reason—but the hotel was better than the studio he would have to be at otherwise, for sure, and while Vaggie and Charlie were near unbearable, they had some qualities that did keep him from hating both of them—or maybe he really didn’t and just needed this place to stay. 

He wasn’t sure which—but that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, this was hell.

In general, he was confused about his feelings towards the hotel in it’s entirety, but bars? Angel Dust knew bars, and he knew he loved bars.

Though, he wasn’t sure what was better about the bar specifically—Husk or the alcohol.

He couldn’t choose which was better—he got to flirt with Husk, and it was fun when he annoyed him, and even better when Husk was clearly half-annoyed and half-enjoying it, but a part of the experience was flirting with him _while_ he was drinking, so really, he couldn’t have one without the other—and he knew that in part because while he can get a Sex On The Beach anywhere, no other bar had his favorite bar cat, and his favorite bar cat only seems to be able to bear his existence when he has a drink in hand.

But this was hell—and Angel Dust didn’t like his afterlife if he wasn’t either drunk, high, or getting a good fuck, so he could get behind that.

”So you just wear the same thing every day or what?” Husk asked, pouring him a drink—he didn’t even really need to ask because Angel Dust always ordered the same drink as his first drink. This was routine.

”Oh, not every day,” he responded, grinning. “But it is my favorite fo’ a reason, Husky.” He reached into his top and pulled out his hellphone—these things still kind of weirded him out and excited him, this thing was almost better than car windows!—for no other reason than to quickly glance at the thousands of comments he was getting on some recent photos on Instagram. Something about the people simping over him gave him a new dose of confidence. He took the glass Husk offered him with one of his arms, and then used another to grab the end of his tie and tug him a bit closer. “Ya wear this tie every day now?”

Husk looked at him—if he was blushing beneath his fur, Angel Dust had no way to know. “So what if I do?” He asked, voice still gruff.

He let go and Husk went back to doing bartender things. “Are you going to the group therapy thing that princess wants us all to attend?”

” _Ha,_ no,” he said. It was also the exact thing he had said to Charlie when she had brought it up with him, except he had actually laughed and then slammed the door in her face—which, come to think of it, might have been a bit rude since there really wasn’t anything stopping her from throwing him out onto the streets where they’d found him except her weird sort of idealism. He was barely open to the thought of redemption—he didn’t think he’d want to tell everyone in the damn hotel all his problems and then join hands and sing a song about hope or whatever the fuck Charlie thought was gonna happen.

”Didn’t think so,” Husk responded.

”The fuck that’s ‘sposed to mean?” He asked.

”...That I didn’t think you’d want to go to a group therapy session with the rest of everyone in this place?” He grabbed some bottle with a label he didn’t bother to read and gulped down at least a quarter.

”Yeah,” Angel Dust said. “She’s asked three fuckin’ times already, like I’m just gonna change my mind.”

”Oh, I don’t really expect you to change your mind, Angel Dust,” she said—she appeared out of nowhere, in her favorite suit, smiling gently and he found himself starting, grasping onto the counter and glancing over at her. “At least, not for awhile, but I want you to know that the option’s on the table, when you’re ready.”

”Maybe when I feel like it,” he responded.

”Alright,” she said—for a minute, she stood there and held out her hand.

”Fuckin’ hell,” he said, suddenly remembering that yes, this _was_ hell and no amount of cocaine and vodka and PCP could really change that, especially since Charlie was very adamant about her anti-drug stance. He reached into his top and pulled out his drugs before handing it over to her.

”Thank you,” she said. She had yet to really show her frustration she was no doubt feeling—in the back of his head, he noted he was probably pushing his luck and really needed to either find a better way to hide his drugs from her, or just stop doing something that would piss her off. She looked at both of them. “Don’t drink _too_ much, you two, one of these days you’re going to need to start really cutting back.” She kind of sounded like a mother, telling their two teenagers to not come home at two in the morning again.

The moment she left, he turned back to the bar. “I wanna get shitfaced, get me another, Husky.”

Husk was already pouring more—he was a terrible employee, and Angel Dust was a terrible patient at this terrible hotel.

”What’s been up with you?” Husk asked. “You keep leaving in the middle of the night—one of these days, she’s gonna catch you.”

That was good to know, actually—because if Charlie did catch him and kicked him out, he’d have to move elsewhere and he had a pig to look after! “Just ‘cause I don’t have to blow my landlord for a place to stay, doesn’t mean I don’t have work to do. Need’a make a livin’ somehow.”

”And being the the most well known porn star in hell doesn’t make enough?” He asked.

He grinned and leaned over the bar. “Oh, Husky, I didn’t know ya were a fan. Why didn’t ya say so?”

”I’m not,” he said. “I’m not interested in any of your fuck films, Angel—I’m just saying your pretty poor for a porn star.”

”’Fuck films,’” he said. “Ya don’t hear that too often.”

”You’re avoiding the ‘poor’ part of my sentence—don’t you make any money from any of your clients?”

He would—if his boss wasn’t such a dick. Not even really a dick like Husk or Angel was, he had no redeeming qualities. Angel didn’t give a fuck over Vox, but he still knew Valentino was cruel to him, knew he treated most of his whores like shit, knew all he cared about was his profits and never cared what _those_ costed him.

His grip tightened on his glass—Husk was still staring at him, apparently not understanding why he looked angry at this question.

Val was such a fucking dick! Angel Dust had been steadily increasing his profits for _decades_ , and every last cent of the money he worked for went directly to Valentino—he’d been living off of tips he got with clients, but even then, Valentino didn’t like knowing he had any money to spare, trying to keep him inside the studio nonstop. Some people, Angel Dust thought, really deserved to be in hell, and while he deserved to be in hell, he _knew_ Valentino deserved worse, but this—this was hell, and this was all there was, and apparently, in hell, everyone was suffering, but you got some coke to deal with it.

He hadn’t realized just how much his grip on his glass had tightened until it shattered—and even then, it didn’t register until he realized that _yeah,_ his hand was bleeding and he was dripping blood all over Husk’s bar and the floor.

For a minute, he just stared at his hand—and, for some reason, he had chosen to skip the gloves tonight, so that was just his white fur and his skin and a whole fucking lot of blood. He looked up at Husk who’s usual somewhat grumpy expression had shifted to one of somewhat surprise. “Fuck,” Angel Dust said.

He didn’t hear anyone enter, but he did hear a voice from somewhere around his knees exclaim, “I thought I heard something break!”

Niffty, in her usual skirt and kerchief, smiling happily moved towards the mess that just happened and Angel moved away so he didn’t trip on her—which, he usually did when she was around, but she always managed to move fast enough to avoid any actual damage that him tripping over her would do. “Oh no! What happened?”

”No idea, broke something,” he said, still looking at his hand—that’d teach him for not wearing his gloves. Fuck.

She looked up at him—which he imagined to be difficult, because she was a tiny thing that reached his knees and couldn’t be any more than like, three feet tall. How she wasn’t snapping her own neck trying to meet his eyes, he didn’t know. “...Did you break your hand?”

”No, thank fuck, I need it for work.”

Husk tossed a clean rag from his side of the bar and he dabbed at it weakly—it wasn’t like he was gonna bleed out, being dead and in hell and all, but Niffty was already halfway done, the glass swept up and gone somewhere while she wiped some blood off the floor. “You should really be more careful, Angel Dust—did you drop your glass?”

”Nah,” he said. “Dunno what happened, sorry, darlin’.”

She smiled sweetly—the blood didn’t really seem to bother her. “Is your hand gonna be okay? Vaggie said you needed it to do jobs...”

”It’ll be fine, kid,” Husk said.

”It’ll be covered up by my gloves, I’m fine.” It looked like shit on his fur, though—he’d need to clean that.

She smiled brightly and dashed off to do god knows what. “How the fuck did that six year old end up in hell?” Angel asked Husk.

”Beats me—but I think she’s older than six, like... two?”

“Two’s less than six, Husky—“

”No, like... twenty two?”

” _Twenty two_?” Angel Dust asked. He tightened his hold on the rag still around his hand. “There’s no fuckin’ way that girl’s only eight years younger ‘an me! I mean, from an age perspective, we ain’t gonna take death dates into account.”

”Fuck that shit, no one likes math.”

“I dunno, Husky,” he said, and leaned back over the bar. “I’d like to add you into _my equation_.”

Husk looked up at him. “What the literal fuck did you just say?”

”...It’s... It’s a pickup line, Husky.”

He fixed his tie. “I know that, but it doesn’t sound like a pickup line from some—“ Instead of putting a noun into that sentence, he just gestured to Angel Dust. “—it sounds like some serial killer who’s gonna skin me alive and turn me into a jacket.”

What? “Because I used math?”

”No, it sounds like a pickup line someone would use when they want to skin you alive and are trying to lure you home with them to do that.”

”...I don’t think...” He trailed off—they stared at each other. “Okay,” he said. “I’m gonna go to bed now—I gotta pig to cuddle, since all the kitties in this hotel... think I’mma serial kill them or somethin’.”

Husk just took a swig of his bottle and watched him go back to his room.

Fat Nuggets got up from his bed to greet him when he opened the door. “There’s my favorite pig,” he said and scooped him up before sitting down on his bed. “Even if you weren’t my only pig, you’d be my favorite, Nugs.”

He managed to get his top off without disturbing his beloved pig, who seemed pretty content to just rest on his abdomen and curl up around one of his arms—which also managed to have made that difficult enough for him to decide that with his shirt off, he was otherwise fine and just laid back and shut his eyes.

He realized he didn’t want to go to bed like this—he barely had a buzz going, and he wasn’t even high. Actually, he felt pretty fucking low right now—he wasn’t sure when he started feeling this low, like this. When that glass broke? Did he think too much about work? Was it the serial killer joke? Husk rejecting his advances? He frowned and tried to situate himself without disturbing Fat Nuggets, which mostly just resulted in him moving an arm an inch and crossing his legs, still in his boots.

Maybe he’d been feeling like this for awhile.

Or maybe it was when that damned princess took his drugs.

Yeah—that had to be it.

He sighed—he didn’t know how else to get to sleep, since he was usually drunk or high when that happened. Did he really want to disturb his pig to go back downstairs to try and get drunk? Did he find more drugs? Did he find someone to fuck him to the point of exhaustion?

” _Hey,_ pretty piggy...” He slid his arm out from beneath Fat Nuggets, who seemed to strongly disagree with his choice. “Sorry, hon, I can’t sleep like this.” He told himself, when he came back in with whatever method he was going to use to get to sleep, he’d cuddle his pig a bit more because he was a good boy and deserved it.

He threw on a top that’d be easier to put on and off and went back to the lobby. Husk looked up at him. “You’re back?”

”No way am I gonna sleep like this—Charlie took my drugs.” Which Husk probably knew about—he had been there. He saw. “Get me another drink, I never got shitfaced.”

”Oh, I figured that was why you smashed one of my glasses,” Husk said.

”No, that wasn’t it, Husky. What’d ya take me for, some kinda lightweight?”

”Yeah.” Husky grabbed a glass, poured some whiskey and handed it to him. “If that doesn’t knock you out, nothing will.”

Without breaking eye contact, he drained it. “Fuck, my cocktails taste way better than this shit.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his uninjured hand. “Pour me another and I’ll quit calling you Husky.”

”I don’t believe you, but okay.”

He downed that one pretty quick too. “Does your hand hurt at all?” Husk asked, but Angel just sat there, not responding. Slowly, he took the glass in Angel’s hand and took it away—that snapped him out whatever weird trance he was in.

”Huh?”

Husk blinked. “Go the fuck to sleep, Angel Dust.”

He didn’t quite remember falling asleep, but it might have been more because he was out like a light once he got to his room and picked up Fat Nuggets—he could honestly sleep at least three days away like this, if he tried, but someone was knocking on his door.

”Angel Dust?” Charlie called. “Hey. Are you okay?”

”No,” he called back. He had also intended to tell her to go away, but that part, he didn’t say. Fat Nuggets squirmed on his chest—he really needed to quit letting him sleep there, it was never comfortable for him.

”...Can I come in?” She asked—well, now she was probably worried.

”Hold on,” he said. He managed to gently push his pig onto the mattress and off of him and stood up before looking himself over—it wasn’t like seeing him without his clothes was a rare thing, being a porn actor and all that, but Charlie would probably get flustered to see him without a shirt on.

He rubbed at his eyes, momentarily wondered if he could just crawl back into bed and sleep some more, but then remembered that he was up for a reason.

Charlie was wearing her hair down—her hair tie probably fell out or something. “Hey, I heard you broke a glass and cut yourself.” She looked at his hand—he had slapped a bandaid on at some point, he was pretty sure, but it was small and didn’t do shit for the much larger cut on his hand. She raised a first aid kit. “I can clean it up and bandage it.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

”You’re bleeding,” she said.

”I gotta bandaid.”

”...I think you’re gonna need at least seven more,” Charlie insisted.

He just kind of stood there. “...You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

”I _was_ asleep,” he responded—which was not a good response to Charlie’s question.

”Sorry,” she said. “But you’re bleeding really bad. It’ll only take a minute, and it’s definitely better than just bleeding in your bed, right?”

”Wrong,” he said.

”What?”

”What?”

They both stared at each other. “...Can I come in now?” Charlie asked.

Last time she came in, she had blushed a thousand shades of scarlet because he hadn’t bothered to pick up his room and she had seen all of his work shit, and she hadn’t been able to make eye contact with him without getting a nose bleed for a few weeks. But he didn’t think of that, he just thought the fastest way to get back to sleep was to let her do what she wanted, so he let her in.

Charlie still blushed when she saw the sex toys scattered around his room, but didn’t say anything about it. He sat back down on his bed (instead of in) and Charlie sat beside him. He let her grab his hand and bring it closer to her and brought Fat Nuggets into his lap with his three other hands to pet. “I always forget you have a pig until I see him,” Charlie said.

”Yeah.” Fat Nuggets curled up in his lap, content. “Pretty sure pigs like, go crazy at the scent of blood and are carnivorous little shits, but not _my_ pig, probably.” He glanced at his hand—it didn’t look like he had tried to eaten his hand. That would have been difficult to explain to Valentino. “Because he’s a mama’s boy.”

Charlie had quit expressing confusion when he used feminine terms for himself—she didn’t really question it anymore, which was good because he’d fucking lose it if he had to explain to her that he just liked referring to his pig as a “mama’s boy” because he fucking hated the idea of being called _Daddy_. And he didn’t know why, but the idea just left a bad taste in his mouth, as if he was saying it or something.

Charlie poured some disinfectant on it, and while the burning sting caught Angel by surprise, he didn’t voice it. “Did you drop your glass or...?”

”No,” he said. “I dunno what happened. I was talkin’ with Husky about work, and my grip tightened, and...” he trailed off—he’d really rather not get into it. It wasn’t like it was a particularly exciting thing that had happened, anyway—it wasn’t like he got this cut in a fight or anything.

”Do you... usually get angry when talking about work?” Charlie asked.

He realized he was drunk out of his mind—this didn’t feel like much more than small talk. “Only the last sixty fucking years.”

“Oh.” She grabbed a roll of bandages. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

”What? You want to hear me bitch about my boss?” He laughed—this was hilarious. “He’s a fucking bastard.”

”Valentino, right?” Charlie asked. “He’s your boss?”

”Yeah. Fucking hate him. Fuck him.”

”He sounds pretty terrible,” Charlie said. “How does he treat you?”

Something about that question didn’t sit right with him. He kept petting his pig. Charlie was quiet for a long moment. “Do you... sleep in those boots?”

”Yeah.” He looked down at them—but they still looked amazing, shiny, and tall. “I don’t like how my feet look.”

”I thought you thought your body was flawless?”

”It is.” It sounded like a stupid question—he loved his body. Maybe it was just that he had lived in this one for much longer than he had in his last one, or maybe it was the fact that he liked being tall and having _six_ arms. “One thing I don’t like about it. Everythin’ else? I can hold like, three tommy guns. Any track marks I have don’t show. I have no scars. I’m always warm. I can dress as slutty as I want. What part of that isn’t amazing?” None of it, for sure, for sure. This was hell, but it wasn’t any worse this his life had been. Honestly, it was better.

“...I’m sorry,” she said. “For taking your drugs.”

”Tch,” he said. “I can get more—they might as well grow on trees ‘round here—and I can get the good quality shit.”

”But don’t you want to get clean?” Charlie asked. “Drugs are bad for you.”

”Not like I’mma fuckin’ overdose,” Angel said, simply.

”No,” Charlie said. “But I don’t like the idea of you being dependent on them.”

”Then how the fuck am I gonna get high?”

”...Get high off of your afterlife?”

He managed a weak chuckle—that was a lame joke, he thought, but Charlie’s expression wasn’t joking, which confused him. “Nah—only drugs make existence not suck.” And something about that was so, so funny, his chuckle turned into mad laughter—and he couldn’t stop.

Charlie smiled sympathetically. “Right,” she said. “...I guess everyone’s got their reasons...” She frowned.

”So, can I have my killer weed back?” He asked.

Charlie frowned. “It... didn’t look like marijuana,” she said.

”’Cause it’s not,” he said. “It’s—“ He snorted—he was still laughing.

”Maybe we’ll talk about this when you’re sober,” Charlie said. “You’re drunk and exhausted. I’ll let you get some sleep. Do you think maybe you can at least consider our whole group therapy idea? How useful is it gonna be when the first patient here won’t consider talking about all this? You wanted to give redemption a shot, right?”

He was still laughing. He couldn’t stop and he couldn’t breathe. “Okay,” Charlie said, like this was an answer. “Go ahead and get some sleep, I’ll quit bothering you, Angel Dust.” She stood up—and gave Fat Nuggets a pat on the head. “Night.”

He didn’t respond. He laid down on his side, bent his arm on the mattress and held his pig. He drifted off to sleep easily and slept like the dead for the night.

When he woke up, he barely remembered anything he had spoken to Charlie about or what she came in for.

Right in the hallway, Niffty was chasing some vermin of some sort and screaming _Die!,_ and somehow, that wasn’t what woke him up. Instead, it was his phone—Val needed him at work, he had some shoot to do. He groaned and fought the urge to pull his pillow over his head and suffocate himself to double death.

He did not want to get out of bed.

He was going to have to—it took a lot of effort and time to look as good as he did on a day to day basis, and if he didn’t at least pretend to look put together, he might have to talk with Charlie about it, and that wouldn’t go well, and also, he really had a job to do and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell Val that he didn’t go to work, because he didn’t have the motivation to get out of bed.

He almost smirked at the idea of telling him that—it wasn’t something he’d ever be willing to say to him, in part because of his reaction, because after the shock and confusion, he’d probably turn to anger—but it was never the fun type of anger. Valentino didn’t hit him—it wasn’t the anger that spread like fire and would burn throughout you, his anger was calm and it had a tendency to make him feel sick, and sometimes it made Valentino get creative.

But a part of him would kind of like to see the look on his face.

He moved his hand to try to push himself up, and managed to rub his palm the wrong way like that and cringed—he was definitely going to wear gloves today—but he did most days anyway, so Valentino wouldn’t know, which was good. In general, it tended to be a good thing when he didn’t know most things, and even as a demon, goddamn it, he still liked some good things, _especially_ that thing.

”Hey, Nugs...” He pet his pig, watching him rub against one of his good hands. “Guess who’s gonna watch you while I’m at work? It’s ya favorite bar cat, Nugs—he’s gonna take good care of you while mama’s gone.” He made himself stand—and nearly fell over. Great—he was hung over.

It didn’t matter—he had some painkillers he could take after he left the hotel, so Charlie didn’t see, and Valentino wouldn’t care if he came to work high and hungover—he wouldn’t care if he was drunk or tripping either. Actually, Valentino might like him a bit better if he started coming into work blackout drunk and passed out.

His headache mocked him with every step he took—when he got dressed, did his hair, put on his makeup. A throbbing pain rested behind his eyes—all eight of them. He chose to just wear his usual outfit—and made sure he wore his gloves. His injury was barely noticeable beneath his glove, it was like it wasn’t there.

He passed Niffty in the hallway, mopping up some blood and smiling—this was normal, actually, and he tried not to wonder where the blood came from, because she looked very happy and all but chirped a greeting like everything was right in the world.

Husk looked at him when he approached. “Oh no,” he said, but his tone didn’t really change. He looked at Fat Nuggets in Angel Dust’s arms and repeated, “Oh no.”

”Husky, darlin’,” he started. “Can you watch my little mama’s boy while I’m out? He gets lonely.”

Husk looked at Fat Nuggets—who was apparently still tired, sleeping like an angel—and sighed in defeat. “I can’t even say no, can I?”

”Well, ya could, but then I wouldn’t be as willin’ as I am to bring you back a bottle of whiskey for bein’ the best.”

”I don’t know what that shithead’s told you—“ He pointed to Alastor, smiling as always and walking around the building. He definitely noticed that Husk was pointing at him, but if it bothered him any, he didn’t let on. “—but you can’t just promise me alcohol to get me to do what you want.”

”Right—sorry, I can’t jus’ summon bottles outta thin air, Husky.”

They stared at each other a moment—before Husk sighed. “Give me the pig.”

Angel Dust grinned victoriously and handed him over. “Take care of ‘im, Husky,” he sang. “Bye, Nugs—“

He turned on his heel, intending to just walk out the door and leave, but of course, it wasn’t that easy—Vaggie stood in his way. “Hold it,” she said.

”Can’t, toots, I gotta job to do.”

”And so do I.” She crossed her arms over her chest—Angel still towered over her, like he did most, but she still somehow managed to peer down her nose at him. “Which is making sure the patients of the—“ She hesitated, waved her hand. “Whatever the hell the sign says out there focus on their rehabilitation—which is hard enough with you, and even worse with your job.”

”I’m sure,” Angel said, crossing his arms. “But my job is a lot harder when I _can’t get to fucking work.“_ He tried to step around her, but she just followed smoothly, it didn’t make much a difference.

”It’s bad enough you still drink and do drugs and won’t go to the group therapy sessions we’re trying to do,” she continued. “But you still work one of the most hedonistic jobs in hell and continue to go out while being rehabilitated.”

”Yeah,” Angel said. “‘Cause I’m _definitely_ in hell ‘cause I’m a slut, and not because of the six men I killed.”

”Regardless of the—wait, did you say six?” She shook her head. “Whatever reason you think you’re here, the entire point of our redemption attempt is to cut back on your sinning, in general—that’s kind of difficult to do when your job is _yours_.”

”Oh, wow,” Charlie said, walking over and grabbing Vaggie’s arm. “We’re fighting already today.”

“We’re paying for your food and housing already,” Vaggie said. “Do you really need to go into work everyday, _and_ drink everyday?”

”I couldn’t stop if I wanted to, baby—I’m on a contract.” He pushed through the two of them and walked out the door—but he swore Charlie and Vaggie shared a look before he left.

Charlie called after him, “Don’t engage in any turf wars that get broadcasted all over the news for days and ruin the hotel’s reputation!” But he was gone by the time she even started her sentence.

Valentino didn’t look happy to see him—he wasn’t sure what that meant, but his pimp was currently at his desk, counting over some bills. He looked up when he saw him—and grinned. “I was wonderin’ when you were going to come into work, Angel Cakes...Thought I might’ve had to chase you across the west side just to find you again, sweetheart.”

”I’m here now, boss.” He crossed one pair of his arms, and pressed his bandaged palm against his upper arm.

Valentino smiled—that could mean many things. With his ~~super tacky~~ glasses on, Angel struggled to gauge his expression. He couldn’t tell if it met his eyes. “You aren’t goin’ to leave the studio to skip out on work and try to do some deals for me, now, are ya, baby?”

One time. He did that _one time,_ succeeded, and managed to get Valentino his drugs _and_ keep the money, and then immediately made him stand on the corner while he waited for someone to approach him to get him more money. “No, boss,” he said.

He wasn’t surprised that was where Valentino’s mind was going—maybe he was aware that if he hadn’t been an ungrateful bastard and hadn’t made him work the corner, he wouldn’t be staying at the hotel right now. He considered it too far from the studio and had laughed his ass off when he learned Angel was staying there, but at the end of the day, he knew Valentino wasn’t worried about Angel leaving—they still had a contract, and also, he was definitely terrified of Valentino.

”Good boy,” he said. “Why the fuck did you open the door with your left hand? You’re right-handed.”

”Dropped a glass last night when I was drinkin’—it’s a minor cut.” It had bled like crazy was most of what he remembered. He wasn’t quite sure how it was bandaged, most because last night was a _little_ fuzzy and he really, really didn’t care enough to think too hard about it. Valentino stared at him. “It’s really nothin’, Val.”

”Probably because you’re stayin’ at that rundown hotel, Angel,” Valentino said.

Actually, it was because his boss fucking sucked, but he wasn’t going to say that. He bit the inside of his cheek—his stomach clenched. “It’s a free room,” he said—a small, small part of him felt like he should defend the hotel, because yeah, it was a bit run down, but Niffty could whip it into shape easily, he got to drink and flirt with the bartender who would watch his pig while he was away, and for some reason, today, he found Charlie kind of bearable.

He reached over and grabbed his chin, making him make eye contact—but he didn’t look too angry. Sometimes, when he spoke to Angel Dust, he looked only bored and mildly irritated. ”And the studio has a room for you, too, Angel Cakes.” He didn’t like the look on his face. One of his hands clenched into a fist on his knee—in general, he didn’t like it when people grabbed his face like this, but especially Val. And he knew he only did it to piss him off. “And I’d be more than wiling to handcuff you down on the bed in there to make sure you can’t run away from me—then I won’t have to worry about my little moneymaker gettin’ hurt, would I?”

”That’d take a lot of handcuffs.” It was the only response he could think of—it’d only take like four, though. Which was more than average, he guessed, and it’d probably depend on how exactly he was handcuffed, but like—four to eight handcuffs, which was more than average, but wasn’t exactly an outrageous amount for a porn studio—most of Angel’s co-workers usually had a spare set of handcuffs on them, just in case.

This was apparently not the response Valentino expected. “...You’ve a shoot in two hours, ‘kay, sweetheart? Don’t be such a brat then.” He gave one, quick squeeze—probably because he knew Angel didn’t like it—and let go.

”Whatever you say, Mista Valentino.”

Work fucking sucked, but he had kind of expected that when he got out of bed this morning and there was nothing better then days like this, to go back to the hotel, and find a hot bartender holding his pig.

”There’s my favorite pig!” Husk looked pretty eager to hand Fat Nuggets over, but that didn’t matter—this was the best pig in this side of hell. “Were you good for Husky?”

Fat Nuggets—being a pig—did not say anything back to him, but Husk told him, “He ate slightly less limes today.”

”He likes limes.” He managed to hold Nugs with his two lower arms and stretched out his top two until something cracked. He sighed. “Thanks fo’ watching my little mama’s boy, Husky—he gets so lonely all by ‘imself in my room—don’t you, Nugs?”

“It’s a pig,” Husk said. “He doesn’t talk.”

”You’re a cat,” he said. “I’m a spider—and I talk plenty.” Wasn’t that what he had been told today? That he was _plenty_ vocal, when he wanted to be. ...He decided he’d rather not think about work right now. “I’mma go lie down for awhile with my pig, Husky—any chance you want me to come back later and _repay_ you for watching Nugs for me?” Husk looked at him flatly. “I think I could find you some _proper_ payment for your help.”

”Yeah,” he said. “Liquor.”

Fuck. He knew he forgot something—it wasn’t like he could buy any right now, but he still felt kinda guilty to not be able to give Husk anything.

He looked at Husk—despite his work today, he still had no money. “...I can suck ya dick.”

”I’ll pass.”

”...Fuck.”

At least Husk was still nursing a bottle of whiskey, so he didn’t feel too guilty—except, he still did. He figured he’d just numb the guilt—and the pain of today’s shoot, he tried not to limp back to his room—with some drugs he had in his room, because already, he was feeling withdrawal symptoms—they were incredibly minor, nothing more than a bit of a headache in the back of his head and a general discomfort as if his skin didn’t fit right on his body.

He put Nugs on the floor and checked his stash in one of the drawers on his dresser, pressed somewhere between a thong and a crop top—he hated how low his stash was getting. Around here, drugs were incredibly easy to find, he just needed money to get them—and not even _much,_ but Valentino _loathed_ the idea of him getting paid anymore than he already was. He supposed it made sense for him, what with him pretty dependent on Valentino for about—he wanted to say about sixty five years.

That didn’t sit right with him. Over half a century he’d been wasting on him. He really, really wished he could go back in time somehow, stop himself from all the shit that had lead up to this.

He had two blunts, a small bottle of straight whiskey that was about half full, he couldn’t remember how long that had been in there, and some cocaine for when he got really desperate—but he honestly didn’t really care much for cocaine, snorting it was just unpleasant and it wasn’t as good as PCP which Charlie had right now...

Fuck, what he wouldn’t give for his PCP back.

He sighed and took out one of the blunts—he’d save the coke for when he got _really_ desperate, he figured, and would, until then, try and find a way to make money. He used to just go to his pimp for when that happened, but once he realized Valentino was just going to dangle everything he had ever done for him over his head, it had dawned on him that he didn’t really have many choices and was trapping himself into a pretty horrifying existence with his contact, and he was trying to make whatever choices he could. He didn’t want to depend on his pimp—though, to be honest, he wasn’t sure how well that’d go when he was clean for too long, but he guessed he’d figure it out later.

He laid down on his back in bed with his joint and tried to relax. “How many limes did you actually eat?” He asked, but his pig just laid beside him.

The peace was short lived—his phone vibrated in his pocket and he wasn’t sure who it was. _I fucking swear, if it’s Val, I’m going to stab someone._

He picked it up—the contact name was _Travis_ but for a minute, he wasn’t even sure who that was until he looked at past text messages. Right—just some client.

_”Hey there, hot stuff. I’ve got a few hundred and a bottle with your name on it if your free tonight.”_

“Fuck,” he said.

His phone vibrated again. _“Or am i supposed to talk to your pimp to get your service?”_

”Fuck,” he repeated and sat up—it wasn’t like he could refuse. When he needed money like this? When he knew, at the very least, Travis might keep it under his hat and he could get more drugs? He sighed and texted back, quickly. _“Sounds good to me, BB how much?”_

 _“Four hundred._ ” Four hundred—he could really get twice as much, he was almost selling himself short like this, but... He sighed—he was still sore, and Travis didn’t need much, and he didn’t need eight hundred to get a fix. ...Well, it’d be a larger fix, but he didn’t need a large one.

He picked up his pig. “Okay, Nugs, you’re gonna hate me almost as much as Husk, but mama’s gotta job to do, honey.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have started with, “Husky, you’re gonna hate me,” because it had made it obvious where the conversation he just started was going and Husk grabbed his bottle he had open by the neck and immediately said, “No.” He walked away to the other end of the bar without another word.

He looked down at him. “Whaddya think, Nugs? Ya think he’s being an asshole about this?” Husk didn’t even look at him. “I do too.”

”I’m not watchin’ your pig for another ten hours!”

”It won’t be ten hours,” he said. “It’ll be one—two tops. C’mon, Husky, what else am I gonna do with this little guy?”

”Ask someone else—go ask Alastor.”

He couldn’t help the fact that he bristled. “I don’t trust _pimps_ with my _pigs,_ especially the strawberry ones!” Husk’s confusion didn’t really show, and he didn’t really care. “C’mon, Husky—I need you. Help a bitch out.”

Husk sighed. “Why the fuck did I pull that trigger,” he muttered. “Fine! I’ll watch your pig!”

He fixed his suit jacket top. “Thanks, Husky.”

”Yeah, yeah...”

He pulled out his phone. _“U think you can pick me up—I want to save some of my energy for you_.” He went ahead and sent a bunch of heart emojis and kisses—there was no way he could walk all the way to Travis’ place as sore as he was. Honestly, having sex would be pretty difficult like this.

He realized he wasn’t dependent on Valentino—at least, not nearly as dependent as he was on his drugs.

It was the same argument as usual—not quite a _fight,_ at least, Charlie would say, ever the optimist, but she was right. Fights, Vaggie thought, were usually shouting. They were insulting, disrespectful, and usually louder—she knew a thing or two about fights, but she didn’t really fight with Charlie.

”I’m glad you care about this so much, Vaggie,” Charlie said. “But I don’t think pushing him like that’s actually gonna work—we’ll just push him away.”

”We can find someone else,” Vaggie said. “Someone more willing, and who doesn’t just need a place to crash.”

”I get it,” Charlie said. “I get you care about what we’re setting out to do, but don’t you care about Angel at all?”

That was difficult to answer—she was used to fighting with Angel Dust, of course. Something about him had a tendency to constantly rub her the wrong way, in ways she didn’t want to get into right now, but it was that same part of her that _did_ care. Unfortunately, for Charlie, and for Angel Dust, and for herself, it was a part of her she kind of hated. “I guess,” she said.

”...You guess?” Charlie asked. “That’s not...” She sat down on their bed. “We can’t kick him out—even with the drugs. And the drinking. And the job.”

”Every—“ She felt her anger spike and she immediately stopped herself. She loved Charlie—she didn’t want to lash out at her. She wanted to talk this out, like a good girlfriend in a happy, healthy relationship. “...I really feel like every time I bring up a concern,” she said. “Or say my opinion on something, you shut it down.”

“What do you mean?”

”I mean... The interview on the news, when I said you shouldn’t sing—even though I know you’re good at expressing yourself through song, and it _was_ a good song, hon—or when, on the drive back to the hotel, when you said that it would be fine, despite the fact that it was completely Angel Dust’s fault our hotel looked—“ Well. Not like a joke, he had been right about that—there was nothing funny about their situation. “—sad and pathetic. And then when Alastor was at the door—“

”Okay,” Charlie said. “I was only talking to him because it would have been rude to ignore him, but I didn’t let him in. He just kind of moved right past me.”

”I’m just saying,” Vaggie said. “That it feels like you’re disregarding my opinions on these matters. This hotel was your idea, and I want to help you, but you have to let me help, and honestly—and I say this, with the most amount of love I possibly can, you know I adore you, hon—without me, people would walk all over you.”

”I know,” Charlie said. “I...” She crossed her arms over her chest, frowning deeply. She didn’t meet Vaggie’s eyes. “...I really appreciate your opinions on these things, but I really think you should be more... lenient on this—I...” She swallowed. “...I feel like you’re treating Angel Dust more like—“ She waved her hand. “I don’t know, he’s... Ugh, I can’t...”

”It’s fine,” Vaggie said. “We can talk about this later.” She didn’t want to—but she was a sucker for a pretty face, and there was no one, in the entirety of Hell, who was any more beautiful than her girlfriend, and if Charlie told her to jump, she’d ask how high. She’d do anything for her, and she hated it when they fought.

Charlie sighed and laid on her back on the bed. “...We’ve been arguing more recently,” she said. “...I don’t like it.”

”I don’t either, hon.” She’d been calling Charlie _hon_ a lot more too, as if to make up for how much they were arguing. “It’s...” She was going to say, _It’s just a rough patch,_ but she found the words catching in her throat. “...I’m sorry.” She felt like she was picking them—Charlie wasn’t really a push over, no, but she wasn’t the type to pick fights. This must have been her fault. She felt guilty.

”I’m sorry too.” She sat down on their bed—and grabbed Charlie’s hand. Charlie didn’t hesitate to grab her’s and squeeze, gently. “I never thought this was gonna be _easy_ ,” she said, and offered a weak smile. “We... can do this. Eventually.”

Technically, they did have an eternity to wait—they weren’t going anywhere. They were already in hell—and no one was getting into heaven anytime soon—but Vaggie didn’t like the fact that they only had ten months until the next cleanse.

Travis wasn’t really a _good_ fuck, but he wasn’t bad either—and Angel Dust had had worse clients, and it was at that point where Travis was a bit of a familiar face, having been a fan of him for awhile.

His home was the same as it had been last Angel saw it, and it was the same on every house on the block—he knew Travis had a wife, he didn’t know if she knew her husband had a tendency to get the most expensive prostitute he possibly could a few times a year, but he didn’t care too much—he hadn’t made any moral commitment to Travis’ wife. It wasn’t his problem.

He tugged his miniskirt down. “Time’s up—gimme my money, Travis.”

He wasn’t a hundred percent sure if Travis had a thing for couch sex, or didn’t want to have sex in the bed he shared with his wife, or if they just never managed to make it to Travis’ bedroom, but he didn’t think it really mattered.

Travis muttered a bunch of curse words and grabbed his pants off the floor, digging his wallet out. He pressed a wad of bills into Angel’s hand. “That should be it.”

Actually, it was twenty dollars more than four hundred, but he wasn’t about to tell him that—it was his own damn fault he couldn’t count. “I better get outta your hair, and get back—keep this between us?”

“Yeah, yeah...” He shoved his money in his fake cleavage, pressed between his fur and his tight jacket—this _was_ hell. He didn’t want to get mugged—but also, if he got mugged, he could just fucking murder them, so.

Outside, he took a deep breath and counted his money again—he could get some good PCP for this shit. He made a mental note to buy Husk a cheap bottle of whiskey.

He also had his drugs in his top—he told himself, if Charlie accused him of having drugs, he’d deny it and wouldn’t give in too easily.

Husk was passed out drunk—Fat Nuggets was eating a lime and seemed very happy to see him. He just placed the bottle directly in front of Husk and picked up his pig. “Were you a good boy for Husky?” He asked while he went to his room.

He was prepared to relax in his room for awhile—and do some drugs—while chilling with his pig. He stretched his arms out and fell back on his bed. “Goddamn,” he sighed. “Nothing’s going to make me leave this room, Nugs. Nothin’.”

He shut his eyes. Fat Nuggets settled somewhere on his pelvis and he decided he didn’t want to squirm to get comfortable beneath his pig, and it’d make sure he stayed put. He couldn’t really do drugs or drink beneath his pig, but he decided he was alright with just relaxing like this.

He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he realized he was dreaming—his current room in the hotel had fused with memories of his bedroom he had shared with his twin sister Molly, in a small, weird little argument she had ended by saying he was her favorite twin, and still somewhat irritated over something, he had said she was his least favorite twin and she had laughed and laughed while she situated herself next to him and looked over all six of his gloved hands and asked if these were large, pink freckles or small eyes on his cheeks.

He was perfectly content sleeping, but someone knocked at his door, drawing him out of his sleep. He blinked and stared up at the ceiling for a moment—there was another knock, gentle and quick. He sighed and sat up, gently picked up Fat Nuggets and placed him down somewhere where he wasn’t really crushing his hip bones. “You’re lucky you’re a cute fucker, Nugs,” he said, getting to his feet and opening the door.

For a minute, he thought no one was there, but then realized someone was talking and looked down—Niffty was already mid sentence. “—said your room was really dirty, and I just thought it was worth offering to help you clean it.”

He blinked—he might have still been half asleep. “Huh?”

”...Your room!” Niffty chirped. “I can help you clean it!” She peered behind him. “Oh, wow! Charlie wasn’t exaggerating!” He almost struggled to remember what Charlie had been doing in his room. “It’s trashed!”

”Yeah,” he said—he meant, _yeah,_ as in, _Yeah, it’s trashed,_ but apparently, it came out as in, _yeah, I could use your help_ or something similar, because Nifty exclaimed, “Great!” And stepped right in and he was still trying to catch up with what was happening, to the point he felt it would be kind of awkward to kick Niffty out.

“Oh, wow!” Nifty might have been blushing because whatever it was she was looking at, she looked away from very quickly. “Haven’t seen one of those things in awhile...” He followed where her gaze had been—he didn’t feel himself blushing, but it wouldn’t have shown through his fur. “...You’re um... a...” She frowned. “...I don’t know what the current term for it is.”

”Prostitute, sex worker, callgirl.” He’d been called it all. “Porn star, hooker, stripper...”

She flushed. ”Yeah, those words.” She giggled nervously. “Oh, your pig! I always forget you have one!” Fat Nuggets looked at her. She chipperly scratched him behind his ears. “So cute! How’d you even get a pig?”

”He was a gift,” Angel responded. He grabbed a few of his sex toys and threw it in a box he had for his work shit, trying to hide any that might scar Niffty for the rest of her afterlife. “He’s my little mama’s boy, huh, Nugs?” He laid back down on his bed.

”That sounds like a nice gift,” Niffty said.

”Better’n a weight loss kit,” he responded—that was still messing with him. He reminded himself that he was the most beautiful person in this joint, but it didn’t make him feel that much better. “But I love ‘im to pieces.”

”Why wouldn’t you? He’s adorable!”

Niffty had already busied herself with grabbing some clothes on the floor and throwing it into a pile. “You sure have a lot of clothes, Angel Dust.”

”Yeah,” he said. “I like clothes.”

Niffty seemed to like this response. She quieted down for a minute, while Angel continued to shove objects Niffty would probably rather not see away. “I like cleaning,” she said after a minute.

”I’ve literally never met anyone who ever said they liked cleanin’, Niffty—are you okay?”

She shrugged. “I cleaned a lot when I was alive,” she said. “My mother—she was kind of like you. My father was barely in the picture, and she was always locked in her room, and she was either drinking or smoking, but she was a big tickle.” He had no idea what that meant. “She never had the motivation to clean, so it just kind of fell to me.” She smiled softly. “She was a good woman...She isn’t down here.”

”Oh.” He wasn’t sure what to say to that. “...Damn, I wish I was your mother.” Just smoking and drinking? In heaven? Sounded good.

”I don’t,” Niffty said. “Then I wouldn’t be down here, and I wouldn’t have met you, or Charlie, or Vaggie, or Husk... I mean, I’m down here, probably because I kind of met Alastor, but...” She trailed off.

”Yeah, why are ya down here again?” He asked. He didn’t imagine Hell would have people like Niffty—she didn’t do drugs. She drank virgin rum and cokes. She was pretty polite to everyone. She never seemed angry.

”I—“ She stopped, smile disappearing. “...I don’t know.” She went quiet.

”Oh.”

”Ha. Yeah.” She jumped to her feet. “I’m going to go clean these for you!” She said. She grabbed onto the pile, sleeves slipping from her arms and almost trailing on the floor as she walked out.

He pulled out his PCP and looked it over—it was some sort of muscle memory, he guessed, because he was already pushing it into lines by the time Niffty came back. “Oh, what are you doing?”

”Drugs.”

”...Oh,” Niffty said. She looked over at it. “...Cocaine?”

”Nah,” he said. “PCP. Angel dust.”

”Oh! That’s the one you really like, right?”

”Yeah,” he said. “It’s better smoked, but smokin’ it usually requires gettin’ it as a liquid and havin’ it with marijuana—and then it’s not really angel _dust_ , and it’s always better smoked, but...” It was what he had done a while ago—before he was at this hotel, when he had plenty of drug money from his pimp and only had to worry about looking good for work and keeping Val happy, and being drunk and high always helped all that.

He wasn’t sure when that stopped being enough.

”...Angel?” Niffty asked, looking up at him.

”Want some?” He asked.

Niffty made a face. “That’s okay. You enjoy your drugs.”

Charlie appeared in the hallway behind her. “Angel Dust!” Her tone was scolding.

”Fucking hell,” he said—another reminder of where he was. He wished he was still asleep.

He shut his eyes—he wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, back to dreaming about his sister, back when he was alive and not a porn star. He didn’t know why—he had _hated_ his life. Granted, he had adored his sister, and sometimes, had liked his older brother and his mother and his father, though he hadn’t loved them the way he had his sister, which had definitely always seemed mutual, and he hated what he did, and being around his family and the fact that his mother would talk about how he just had to meet a nice woman, and how his father had wrinkled his nose and scowled every time he had done something too feminine, had told him, many, many times that his wife hadn’t given birth to two girls and he needed to quit acting like one.

They were all in hell—but he hadn’t wanted to see them. Of course, he had seen them, but they had seen him, in a pink miniskirt, black thigh high boots, a suit jacket, and a black hat and he had laughed at their expressions. He was pretty sure it had been his older brother who had recognized his voice—but all he really, really remembered was being high out of his mind on his stage namesake, seeing the absolute _horror_ on his father’s face when he realized his youngest son had become an effeminate porn star/prostitute/stripper. 

For awhile, it had made him happy. He remembered he’d always tighten his jacket when he went down certain parts of Hell, tried to draw attention to his chest. It was better when he was walking down there for anything work related. Once, he had heard muffled voices, speaking Italian and he had felt himself grinning, though he had no idea if it was any family member. he remembered, for about half a year, he had dressed more feminine then he even wanted, just in case he did stumble into his brother, or he saw his father smoking a cigar, or ran into his mother—they’d be horrified. And he wanted to see it.

He hadn’t seen them in awhile, but he thought that might have been a good thing. He was pretty sure the only member of his family he genuinely cared for was Molly, but she wasn’t in Hell. She didn’t deserve to be in Hell, he thought—she was too much of a doll. She had been sweet, kind. She had loved everyone she met. She hadn’t liked their web of crime, and would have traded places with him in a heartbeat if only to learn how to wield a tommygun because she thought they were kind of cool, but never would have shot a person.

Faintly, he remembered every time someone died, she had gone quiet—if it was someone they knew, she would go to their room and she’d be damn near silent, as if she wanted to just contemplate life by herself. If it was someone their father had killed, or any of ther brothers, she wouldn’t talk to them for about a day, and then she’d be back, ready to rejoin the family, with sweet smiles that almost looked sad, as if she pitied her brothers.

He swallowed. He didn’t like thinking about that, he decided. And since Charlie had his drugs, again, he couldn’t use it to try to get back to sleep. Vaggie had came in and demanded to know where he kept his stash and confiscated it all—he made a mental note to make multiple stashes next time, so that way, when he lost one, he’d still have more and wouldn’t be like this, staring at the ceiling and kind of hating himself for reasons he refused to get into.

The one part about this hotel that he could like was the bar. It never seemed to change—Husk always seemed to be there. There was always alcohol. Husk never seemed to care about anything. Alcohol was indifferent to his problems, but there was few better comforts.

Husk looked up at him. “She took your drugs again?”

”Yep,” he said. “I need liquor.”

”I got liquor,” Husk said. He always did—he needed that right now. He needed a lot of things, though.

”Anything specific?”

”Whatever’ll get me drunk quickest.”

He reached for a bottle—one with a sticky note covered in hearts, _XOXO_ on the borders, _Husky_ in neat lettering towards the center. He poured some of it into two bottles. “You didn’t need to get me whiskey—I have enough cheap booze.”

”Felt like I owed you one. Ya watched my pig twice. Ya put up with my flirting.”

”You flirt _nonstop._ Half the time you talk, it’s a sex joke.”

”I’ve been told I’m vocal.” Husk rolled his eyes and swallowed a mouthful from his glass, pushing one over to Angel. “I feel bad—I keep leavin’ my little angel with you. I feel like he’s either with you or asleep in my room while I drink.”

”That’s probably because he _is_ either with me or asleep in your room while you drink.”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

”Your boss has you working crazy hours and you still have no money.”

”I need to buy treats for Nuggets.”

”Do they have treats for pigs?”

“They should,” he said. “Because Nuggets deserves it. He’s a good pig.”

”He is,” Husk said.

”Aw—is my little mama’s boy growin’ on you, Husky?”

”Oh, _god.”_

”Angel works fine,” he said. He drained his glass. “...You’re straight, aren’t you?”

”I never said that.”

“Well—I figured...”

”No. That’s not it.” He sighed. “Just...not up for it.”

”Well, if you ever get up for it...”

”Yeah, I’m sure.” He grabbed the bottle again, and tilted it, spilling more into his glass and then in Angel’s. “We’re fucked up, huh?”

“Completely,” Angel said. “But why’d that matter? It’s hell, we’d be hard pressed to find a freak here that isn’t fucked up—I don’t even think Niffty’s not fucked up.”

”She’s a sweetheart.”

“A fucked up sweetheart.”

”Still a sweetheart.”

He drained his glass again—it burned, but he needed a burn. It meant he was feeling something. “I’mma regret asking this tomorrow,” he started, which was always the best way to start sentences. “But...did you commit suicide? Is that why you’re here.”

”Ugh.” Husk just lifted the bottle up to his lips and took a swig. “I’m not proud of it. What about you? Heard you overdosed on some shit.”

”Angel dust. I overdosed on angel dust.”

”Isn’t it like a fifties thing?” Husk asked. “Thought you died in the forties.”

”I was ahead of my time.” He sighed. “That high was fucking amazing though—best high I’ve ever had, in life or death, holy _fuck_.” Sex couldn’t compare. Alcohol couldn’t compare. It had been the best feeling he had ever had.

”But you’re dead now—can’t you have have higher doses of that shit without dying now?”

He shrugged—he didn’t know what that was about. “Maybe I just liked how dyin’ felt.”

Husk looked at him. “Fuck.”

”What?”

”That’s fucked up.”

” _I’m_ fucked up.”

”Yeah, but at least I regret dying. I think. Most of the time I do. That bullet fucking hurt, I know that at least. I know I intended to die.”

He didn’t think he did—but very, very faintly, he could remember thinking, _This is it. This is too much. This is probably bad._ Technically, the overdose didn’t kill him, but...

That coma had been the most peace he had ever felt. He’d kill for that again—his life had sucked, his afterlife sucked—he’d love to be somewhere in between, technically alive, but not needing to really do anything, but lie there. ...Of course, he had kinda been lying there, waiting to die, but still.

He rubbed at his eyes. “I’m gonna go back to my room before I get black out drunk and don’t make it to my room.” He stood, almost swayed on his feet and ended up grabbing the counter. “Thanks, Husky.”

He sighed. “Night, Angel.”

Seven weeks passed, and Angel had to make do with lackluster, sparse drugs that left him feeling tired, itchy and frustrated with everyone because he wasn’t high—he had divided his stash into halves, with one in the drawers, and one in with his work shit where hopefully no one would search, but he had managed to get more drugs and was pretty happy with himself.

It was the good shit too—liquid PCP. He didn’t have much marijuana to smoke it, he had seen people use shit like oregano and mint but he didn’t think he’d do that with it. When he ran out of marijuana, he could just drink it straight up or whatever—it wasn’t like he was gonna die _again,_ probably.

Honestly, he wouldn’t be against dying again, he thought—after the day he had had? Maybe that was just what he needed—a bleak, black nothingness behind his eyelids.

Vaggie and Charlie were also at the bar when he came down—so he’d have to limit himself a bit. A TV sat above the bar, the news playing.

A blonde demon in a red dress was talking, but her eyes weren’t on the camera, she was smoking a cigarette and relaxed in her chair. “ _Ugh, all the gays down here, with their accents, and their tommy guns, and their drugs.”_ She sniffed, seemingly disgusted—Angel, being one of the gays down here, nodded in agreement. “ _Thought for sure STDs would have wiped all them out, but I didn’t think it’d just mean I’d be stuck with them down here.”_

 _”Katie,”_ the man next to her said. _“We’re on air.”_

”She’s a bitch,” Vaggie said.

On screen, she somehow managed to shove her co-worker in his share off the screen, suddenly smiling wide, missing her cigarette and completely focused. “She’s a homophobic bitch,” Charlie said. “With sharp nails.”

Vaggie reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. Vaggie left to go do something—and instead of lecturing Angel and Husk to not drink or anything, she just smiled after her.

 _Then_ she turned around to lecture them about drinking. “It’s going to be pretty difficult to reach redemption if you both refuse to get clean.”

”I guess,” Angel responded—this was not the right response.

”Come on, Angel Dust!” Charlie said. “I know you wouldn’t be here if you really didn’t believe in redemption.” He fixed his bow tie and took a sip of the drink Husk poured him. “I know it’s not going to be easy, but don’t you want to at least try?”

Try. Try for what? Inevitable failure? There was no point, he thought. Why had he ever even considered it? Val had been right to laugh at him, to try and get him back in the studio, because this was so fucking stupid. “Not really.”

Charlie’s expression turned shocked. “What do you mean ‘not really?’” Vaggie was back now—she looked to both of them, arms crossed over her chest.

”I mean it’s a stupid idea,” he huffed, took a sip of his drink.

”Hey!” Vaggie shouted. “It is not! You’re lucky Charlie’s been trying to do this, she’s only trying to help you!”

”What the fuck is _help_ gonna do? I’m in hell!” He gestured to around him. “This is hell! I’m past the point of redemption, it ain’t worth wastin’ my time, suffering without my drugs or alcohol, to just go back to where I started! Maybe you should quit worryin’ so much about why I’m in hell—you’re not sufferin’ down here.”

Vaggie looked ready to throttle him, the way she often did when someone insulted Charlie, but Charlie rested a hand on her arm gently, stopping her from murdering him. “Angel Dust—I know the idea of such a big change in your afterlife might be kind of scary, and we all have different reactions to fear, but I really am trying to help. You accepted it before—it’s why you’re staying here. What changed?”

”Nothin’,” he said. “Absolutely nothin’ changed, and absolutely nothin’ will.” He sighed, crossed his lower pair of arms. “Dunno why you’re so intent to ‘help’ me. There’s no way you’re half as selfless as you try an’ act—what exactly do you think you’re gonna get from redeemin’ me?”

”Knowing you’re not about to be slaughtered by the exorcists on the streets will be enough,” she insisted. “I can’t stand those yearly cleanses—and knowing that there’s people like you being killed? People who _are_ good, just...” She trailed off and took a step closer—he knew she was being honest, she meant what she was saying and she clearly wanted to help.

But _why?_ Why did she care so much? This was what happened in hell! You died, you were sent here to sin for as long as you could, all the other people was punishment enough—and then, once a year, there was a chance you’d die. You’d be double dead—but there was no double hell, at least, he didn’t think there was. He’d be gone for good. For real.

His stomach clenched—he wasn’t against the idea, really. He didn’t want to go back to Valentino, back to being high out of his mind just to numb the pain, because even then, he knew it was still there, but there was no way he’d last a minute clean, or without Valentino’s protection, and he...

He wanted to die.

Maybe Charlie was able to read minds. “Angel—“

He finished his drink and stood up and marched to his room—he wasn’t a stranger to these thoughts, but he didn’t like being around anyone like this—but he heard Charlie follow him, footsteps heavy on the stairs. “Angel—look, you don’t have to tell me everything, but you can’t just use me for a free room.”

He rolled his eyes, but she continued. “I just need _one_ thing, Angel—just... just tell me that you want my help. Accept _something_ , let me do _something—_ because the room isn’t enough right now.” He stayed silent. “...Why are you here if you don’t want help?” She asked.

He turned to her, eyes blazing. ”Why are _you_ here, Charlie?” He asked. “Why do you want to help anyone here so bad? You really think anyone here is gonna seek redemption? Everyone here’s horrible, we’re all equally horrible people, Charlie—and there’s no escape, no redemption, no savin’ for any of us.” He threw his arms into the air, gesturing to everything. “I’m here ‘cause I overdosed on PCP, got into a coma and got taken out by some people my father pissed off. _You’re_ here because your father’s condom broke and ya seem to think helpin’ other people get out of hell and improvin’ their afterlife is gonna make your life any better.”

It was harsh.

Charlie’s eyes were wide, her cheeks were red, as if she was _surprised_ that Angel Dust of all people would bring up _condoms_ in conversation. But she didn’t look sad or angry—just shocked, like his words had left her reeling.

He decided he was going to leave before she could get angry or sad, because he was already feeling guilty—if she got mad, he’d insult her more and he’d probably get kicked out of the hotel. If she got sad, he’d probably apologize, and he didn’t know how to apologize, and he wasn’t willing to stumble over his words and look like an idiot because Charlie pissed him off.

He turned on his heel and continued to his room, slammed the door behind him. Fat Nuggets looked up at him, but he couldn’t move over to the bed. He pressed his back against the door, took a deep breath—but it didn’t calm him. He didn’t even know what that emotion was, rising from his stomach, into his chest, into his head, throbbing behind _all_ of his eyes. He felt his back sliding down the door but didn’t really register it until he was sitting on the floor and he still was taking deep breaths, but he didn’t feel like he could breathe.

He didn’t notice Fat Nuggets was there until he heard a quiet _oink_ , his pig crawling into his lap. It was pure muscle memory when he pet him, just used to cradling his pig, the little sweetheart. He felt nauseous, in that weird way he only had in life when he really fucked up—this wasn’t even like, a _piss-off-his-father_ fuck up, or a _got-stupid-during-one-of-his-father’s-deals-which-always-resulted-in-people-dying-and-usually-him-or-his-brother-or-his-father-getting-injured_ fuck up. This wasn’t even a _pissed-off-Val-and-then-tried-to-struggle-or-something-when-he-manhandled-Angel_ fuck up!

This was like, _I-killed-a-man-today_ fuckup. This was knowing he had done something horrible, knowing this was wrong. Granted, Charlie was still alive, but...

He slammed the back of his head into the door. _Fuck,_ he thought. _I’m a fuckup._

He just kept petting his pig.

He didn’t leave his room for an entire day—he didn’t want to. He just did not have the mental ability to get to his feet—he noticed on social media Valentino had hooked up with Vox again, after a pretty messy breakup (he had been on the phone with Valentino in the middle of one of their arguments. He was reluctant to hang up on Valentino, because they had been in the middle of a conversation and it hadn’t been three minutes before they started arguing in front of him and he was pretty sure Valentino had forgot he was even on the phone with him, and it hadn’t been until Val threw something at Vox and—a soda, again, he thought, because he heard it crash against Vox’s face/screen and then had exploded and heard him falling to the floor while he asked Val if he was done talking or not) and was in a somewhat good mood that had allowed him to call in sick—under the promise he worked a double later in the week and quit sassing him.

The good part of all this was Fat Nuggets was very happy to spend time with him.

He didn’t remember moving to his bed. He didn’t remember falling asleep—he just remembered being exhausted and miserable and not quite sure what to do with himself.

Someone knocked at his door. “Angel Dust?” Niffty. What did she want? “...Are you okay? You haven’t drank anything yet today. ...Husk wanted me to tell you that he has a shitload of vodka for you!” He snorted at the fact that Niffty just used ‘ _shitload_ ’ like it was an actual measurement. “I’m not sure how much that is, but like—you barely finished your drink last night. And also, you’re not responding like, at all to me right now, and I’m super worried, because when people are this quiet, they’re usually dead.” He glanced at Nuggets who nudged one of his hands, like he wanted him to stand and go open that door. “...Angel? I mean... I know you’re like... already dead and all, and we’re in Hell, but like, I don’t know what else you’d call it, I know it happens. If you could... say anything right now, I’d appreciate it, because the more I think about it, the more likely it is that you _did_ die, and...that’s bad...”

He groaned. ”...Angel?” He got up from bed slowly. “You’re not dead, are y—“

He opened the door and looked down. Niffty brightened. “Oh! You’re okay!”

”More or less...”

”I heard what you said to Charlie,” Niffty said.

”I said shit,” he said—that he remembered. He kept going through it in his head, wondering if he had been too harsh. He had left too quickly to see any damage his words must have caused.

”It was kinda mean,” Niffty said. “I don’t really get your whole...” She made a vague gesture to him. “...agitated and hopeless bit, because it’s a pretty big contrast to how you usually act at the bar and stuff—or maybe that’s the bit? I don’t know.”

”It’s not a bit,” he said. “It’s...” He rubbed his eyes and temples. “Fuck. I dunno. Why are ya up here? Don’t ya got that group therapy shit Charlie was havin’?”

She shrugged. “We were supposed to have that like, six weeks ago, and then we were going to have it today, but...” She trailed off, still staring up at him.

”But what?” He asked. He had a feeling he was going to regret asking.

She shifted on the balls of her feet, like she usually did before she started running. ”I _wanted_ to be a part of it, you know, but, she just—she just decided she wanted to wait.” She adjusted her skirt, averting a gaze for a moment. “Because you’re the first patient here, and she wants you to participate. She talked us all into it, and we agreed we all wanted you to also participate.” He blinked—Niffty straightened her skirt. “So, it’s been delayed—at least until you decide whatever’s happening.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he went with, “That’s stupid.”

”I guess,” Niffty said. “But it wouldn’t feel right—everyone else in this hotel? Without you? I mean, we need you! One of these days, I’m gonna need you to help me stage an intervention for Husk, and I’m gonna need Husk to help me stage an intervention for you! Because I think you guys are friends? I want to be friends with you, but you go from cracking jokes, to locking yourself in your room, and every time, I _really_ think someone died, and that’s not a good thing.”

He rubbed his temples. “Look, Niffty, it’s not that...” Niffty looked up at him. He sighed. “I don’t know—“ He started again.

Fuck, this was difficult. Sometimes, he forgot not everyone was Cherri Bomb—he was so close with Cherri at this point, and it was like she knew when exactly Angel needed her and was there. He didn’t remember much in their relationship that had built up to the point it was at, but he didn’t know how to really communicate with people that wasn’t her—she always just _knew,_ and he knew most anything about her, way different then the rest of the people here. He was kind of on his own with this...

...And likely would be until he went to the stupid fucking group therapy.

Niffty seemed to notice his silence, looked away from him, idly tugging at the kerchief around her neck.

“...At least your room’s pretty clean!” She said, some attempt to maybe fill this weird silence, which only got weirder as it stretched on, since Niffty always seemed to be talking. “I get the feeling you don’t like cleaning when you’re upset. I’m helping Husk down at the bar, if you want to come down—we were getting worried about you. I guess now that I know you aren’t dying in there, I’ll go back downstairs.” She sighed and took a step back, another, looked up—maybe it was less strain on her neck, because holy shit, she was so short, there was no way Niffty was anymore than three feet tall. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something and then frowned deeply, turning back and walking away pretty quickly—but then again, she always moved pretty fast.

He stood there a moment—he still kind of felt like shit. He wanted to curl up in bed with his pig, and also, he wanted to go downstairs, and get a drink and pretend to be somewhat okay. He frowned, and just kept standing, trying to think if he actually wanted either of those things—his thoughts yesterday had showed something he did want and did not want to want, and it was still kind of throwing him through a loop.

Finally, he shut the door and tried to think straight—but it wasn’t working.

He turned to the dresser across from his bed—he’d change his clothes, he decided. Maybe clothes would put him in a better mood, and his clothes felt weird on him, probably because he had been wearing the same outfit for exactly twenty four—no. Make that twenty five hours. Twenty five.

He ran a hand through his hair—okay. Okay. He’d change into a different outfit and then he’d go downstairs, he’d order a drink, and he’d pretend he did not spend the day, locked in his room with his pig having a suicidal episode, and then tomorrow would come and he’d pretend that he wasn’t even pretending.

He could do that.

Niffty actually clapped her hands together when she saw him, made a small, high pitched noise of victory or maybe it was excitement. “You’re not in your usual outfit,” Husk said, though he didn’t give him much more than a glance.

”And you’re still wearing a tie instead of a bow,” he said. He looked much, much more different than what he usually wore—instead of a black mini skirt, he dressed in tight fitting black pants that might have been faux leather or something, and instead of his thigh high boots, he wore ankle high, chunky heels that had him four inches taller than usual—he had noticed a lot of black when he put it on, so he put on some pink make up and a pink shirt, but it still felt like a lot of black, and he didn’t even care too much, he just needed a fucking drink.

Husk nodded—this was an acceptable response. He was already working on pouring Angel Dust’s drink. “Husk,” Niffty started, rocking back and forth on her heels, still smiling so happily—she had been smiling like this constantly, from everything to Alastor fucking _destroying_ Sir Pentious to talking to them. “Can I have a drink too?”

”You do know a virgin rum and coke is just soda, right, babe?” He asked Niffty, but Niffty just smiled in response—she probably did. Maybe she just fucking dug the soda, maybe it was none of Angel’s goddamn business.

Husk was already working on pouring Niffty a drink—and was too occupied to notice her reach up and steal an ice cube. He considered the possibility that Niffty just wanted him down here as a distraction while she stole ice cubes.

The glass in his hand felt familiar, smooth and cool in his hand. He just took a deep breath and took a sip—this was better than being miserable in his room he reminded himself, but that didn’t really keep those dark thoughts away, so he willed himself to just not think—instead, he focused on the feel of the glass in his hand, the taste of the alcohol on his lips, the loud ass crunching sound from Niffty chewing her ice cubes.

He took a passing glance at his hand, the one he had cut whatever amount of time before, but it was already healed fine. Also, he was wearing his gloves, so he didn’t even really get a glance at his hand beneath his glove anyway.

For a minute, he felt almost peaceful—and then he realized there was a muffled sound coming from nearby. “The hell’s that noise?” He asked.

“I think Vaggie and Charlie got into a fight,” Niffty said. “They gave each other this weird look this morning—and I haven’t seen them since.” She looked up the stairs—were they in a room up there? He wasn’t sure if he had heard it or not going down the stairs, because he had been muttering curses beneath his breath and wondering if it was worth getting high in his room right before going downstairs, risking losing his drugs to Charlie, especially when he was probably already on thin ice after his outburst yesterday.

”I hope they make up soon.” It took him a moment to register that Niffty was still talking. “They seem like such good friends!”

Him and Husk shared a look. Sometimes, he forgot she was from the fifties—and still had that fifties mindset. It had taken her awhile to realize that Angel Dust was actually a man, just a man who was into men and liked to dress feminine and occasionally referred to himself with much more feminine terms despite feeling comfortable as a man.

He cleared his throat. “Niffty, baby,” he said. “They’re... They’re not friends.”

She frowned, clearly confused. “What do you mean? They seem so friendly! So close! How can two people talk like they do and be so happy around each other and not be friends?”

”They’re dating,” Husk said.

This did not clear her confusion. ”But they’re both girls?”

”Girls date girls sometimes,” Angel said. “Like how I like men? That’s how Vaggie likes girls.” Niffty blinked. “And Charlie likes _both_ —but she likes Vaggie a lot, so they’re together.”

”But she doesn’t like men? Vaggie, I mean?”

”No.”

”Oh.” She took a sip of her virgin-rum-and-coke. “...They had those back in the fifties, too, but I always thought... Are they like...” She grasped the counter, hesitated a moment. “Are they like, practicing for husbands later, or are they like—“

”No,” Husk said. “It’s just them. Vaggie’s a lesbian, kid.”

” _Oh_ ,” she said. “Good for them, I guess! Oh no, but I heard...” She blushed the slightest bit but finished her question. “I heard Charlie moaning just the other night—I assumed she had a boy in there with her? Does Vaggie know? Should we tell her?”

He had to hide his smile behind his hand and take a deep breath because he was _this_ close to laughing at Niffty’s confused look on her face. “Vaggie knows,” he said. “Because she was in there.”

”Oh, so like—like, one of those threesome dealios?” Niffty asked. _Dealio_. Niffty was kind of hilarious.

”No,” Husk said. He sighed. “No—kid.” He put his face in his hand and just kind of stayed there for a minute.

”No,” Angel said. “It was jus’ the two of ‘em.”

”...How does that work?” Niffty asked.

He contemplated this for a minute—how long did he want to spend, explaining the complexities of oral sex, fingering, and sex toys to Niffty to satisfy her curiosity without feeling weird about talking about this? Well, not necessarily sex he wasn’t comfortable talking about, just these two specific people having sex—instead of getting into a conversation about this, and risking one of them eventually coming down and hearing about it, he stuck with, “Y’know those things ya saw in my room when ya helped me clean it?” He asked. “Those _work_ things?” Niffty nodded. “It’s probably that.”

”...Oh.” She was blushing. “...Well, now I just feel dumb. I guess that makes sense though—I didn’t usually kiss my friends, I guess. There wasn’t really much lesbians in the fifties.”

”There were gays in the forties,” Angel said.

”Isn’t there a difference, though? I’m talking about lesbians, not gays.”

”Oh my fuck, Niffty,” he said. “That’s—“ He rubbed his face. “A lesbian is a gay girl. Gay’s just kind of an umbrella term? Tons of people use it, lots of people use it and don’t even have an exclusive attraction to the same gender, I’ve met so many bi’s who say they’re gay, it’s a thing.”

She was still chewing her ice, but it had probably melted by now, if the lack of crunching was anything to go by. ”...What’s a bi?”

“Charlie.”

”...I thought she was a girl?”

The conversation stretched on for a few hours—Niffty wasn’t an idiot, really, she was just... _behind_ on this shit. Angel didn’t know why, and didn’t super care because Niffty was pretty perceptive and didn’t mind that Angel was drinking heavily throughout the entirety of the conversation and kept checking his top where his drugs were—had... he just forgotten about those? When had they gotten there? He didn’t remember, didn’t really care.

Niffty finished her soda—including the ice cubes in her glass—and thanked Husk happily before going up the stairs to her room to sleep for a bit, leaving the two of them alone to drink—and Angel kept flirting, and Husk did once laugh at a joke he made, but aside from that, nothing much was different except Husk eventually set down the bottle and said, “I’m not gonna pass out at the bar tonight. I’m going to bed.”

Angel Dust felt himself lean back a bit, smiled at him—it showed off his one gold tooth, and he momentarily hoped there wasn’t a crack in it or something. “Do you need any company?”

”You’re a way better drinking buddy than a fuck buddy,” Husk said.

He snorted. “But you don’t know that yet,” he said, and even as he said it, he couldn’t deny that weird rush in his head that came when Husk said that. His face felt slightly warm—he hadn’t ever really considered that Husk actually _liked_ his company, though he had never felt that he strongly disliked his company, because this _was_ hell, and if Husk did feel strongly, he’d probably would have punched Angel Dust across the face the first time he blew a kiss his direction.

”I guess we’ll never know.” He slammed his bottle down on the counter. “Night.”

The night was quiet—he noticed that Vaggie’s and Charlie’s fighting had grown quiet. Maybe they had stopped and called it a night. He wasn’t sure—he didn’t think he should dwell on it, considering he had spent like, fifteen minutes explaining lesbians to Niffty and reassuring her that that had been them having sex the other night. He shut his eyes and tried to relax, still nursing a drink.

His hand went back to his top and he felt his fingers curl around some unnamed drug—probably PCP, but he wasn’t really paying attention. A part of him wondered if he regretted dying.

Of course, at this point, he would have died, even if he hadn’t overdosed—he might have just done it later, gotten killed working with his family, or maybe some natural disaster would have killed him and a thousand others, or maybe just old age—he wondered what happened to his father, his mother, his brother—how did they get here?

He thought about Molly too—his stomach clenched. He never, ever talked with his family, about anything, but he had never seen Molly around them down here, and there had... There had been that one time...

He didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t stop—maybe Hell had some mercy on him, because he heard footsteps on the stairs, coming closer and it pulled him out of his thoughts. He made sure his drugs were tucked into his fur and turned.

Charlie had seen better nights, he thought—she walked too stiff, her hair was messy, and her eyes were blood shot and watery, face flushed. She’d been crying, obviously. She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve once, though it kind of looked like it made things worse. “Angel Dust? ...I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

He felt like saying he’d slept for a good twelve hours at _least_ but that sounded like a sin to him, and probably would to Charlie, so he didn’t. “Nah,” he responded. “Still awake.”

She nodded—wiped at her eyes and ran her hands through her hair. Maybe that was why it was so messy, because she kept running her hands through it. “Hey, about the other night,” she started, but she didn’t finish.

They just stared at each other. Angel wasn’t good at this—he felt guilty, he was pretty sure, but he didn’t know what to do about it. “Maybe that whole condom thing was uncalled for,” he said.

She gave him a watery smile and sat down at the bar next to him. “Is everyone else asleep?”

”Yeah,” he said. “Niffty left, Husk didn’t want to pass out drunk at the bar again and didn’t want sex—no idea where the fuck Alastor is.”

”He’s...” Charlie turned, looked around. “...around here, somewhere, I’m sure.” They both went quiet, as if they thought maybe they’d hear the canned laughter that seemed to follow him, or the static that inserted itself in his speech. “...Are you okay? You haven’t been out of your room in awhile.”

”Neither’ve ya,” he said and turned to face him. “Whole joint heard ya.”

She flushed a shade redder—those were definitely tear stains on her face. “Really?”

”Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t want to come out to get lectured by—“ He gestured to Charlie. “—my mom and—“ He gestured to the stairs. “—My bitchier mom over last night, but once I realized you were fightin’... I think it upset Niffty.”

”I didn’t realize we were that loud,” she said. “We don’t really... do... that.” She tucked her hair behind her ear.

”What were you fightin’ ‘bout?” Charlie just kind of looked at him. “Got it.”

They awkwardly sat there in silence. “Why do you do drugs?” Charlie asked.

He shrugged. “Why do you not do drugs?”

They were still quiet. Charlie rubbed at her eyes again. “Fuck, you’re a hot mess,” he said.

”Yeah,” Charlie sighed. “Vaggie looked worse than me, though—I think we made up. She’s asleep right now. ...I can’t sleep.”

”Neither can I.” Because he slept for like, twelve hours—and then didn’t even proceed to get up and do anything, he just sort of cuddled with his pig for awhile.

”Why the hell did ya start this hotel?” He asked. “What’s the point?”

Charlie sighed, looking down at the counter. “I just don’t... like death, I guess. I don’t like watching my subjects die like they do. I mean...” Her eyes were focused on the counter. “...It’s Hell. I know people don’t tend to like it here very much. I know people might be here for a reason. ...But I just... I can’t _stand_ it.

”The entire idea of those Exterminations—I mean, I get we’re overpopulated, but...” She bit her lip. “Didn’t demons used to be people too? Does anyone really deserve to suffer for all eternity, do people deserve to die?” She sighed. “Maybe I’m just being weird about it—I only got really, really, _really_ into it when Vaggie came here.”

”Yeah?” He glanced at her.

She nodded weakly. ”Yeah—she like, came in the middle of one.” That was alarming. “She’s told me about it before—it could have ended.... really badly. I’m glad it didn’t—and I don’t like the idea of people like Vaggie—good people, people worthy of love and redemption if they just got it—being slaughtered by blood thirsty, armed—“ She trailed off, apparently struggling to find a word to show her hatred. “...It’s not fair. Someone has to do something, and this... is the best I can do.

”But it’s not enough.”

He felt his chest tighten. “Well,” he said. “Ya fuckin’ tried. You’re still fuckin’ tryin’.” Charlie didn’t look at him. “It’s better than nothin’—it’s better than whatever the fuck the rest of your family is tryin’.”

”I guess,” she sighed. “...My father outright told me it was a stupid idea.” She rubbed at her eyes again.

”Yeah, my father’s a piece of shit too,” he responded. “Fuck your father.” He did note he was talking about the King of Hell, but whatever—he might really end up double dead or whatever, but he wasn’t against the thought at the moment.

”Is... your father down here?” Charlie asked.

”Oh, my whole family’s down here,” he said. “Mobster family, y’know how it is—heaven ain’t for gangsters, usually.”

”Oh,” she said. She was still crying. “Geez, I’m a wreck.” She wiped at her eyes again—he never knew what to do when people were unhappy like this. Sometimes, Molly got like this, when her brothers killed someone, but...

Once, he had wanted to do something, to comfort her about it—and Arackniss, in a slightly tender, elderly brother moment had helped him. It was the one minute in his life he didn’t seem angry at them for fuck knows why—but Molly had been cold. She didn’t want comfort. They had backed off—and in trying to think of anyone else getting upset in his life like this, he came up with nothing. He didn’t know how to comfort Charlie. He wasn’t used to this, he didn’t know what to do, had know to way to know—

But he knew what usually worked with him.

”I’m probably going to regret this,” he said—because he was _definitely_ going to regret this. “But...” He dug into his top, pulled out a drug and looked at her. “This is the only way I know how to comfort anyone—want some weed?”

Charlie blinked—she looked at his hand and then his face before tentatively looking it over. “...Drugs are bad for you,” she said.

”Yup. But fuck, if they don’t make my afterlife any betta.” _Better. Betta._ His accent made his words way different from Charlie’s, he noted.

Charlie continued to stare at it, as if he pushed a ticking time bomb into her hands and not a joint—he thought it was weed. Maybe it wasn’t—Charlie wouldn’t know the difference, the goodie two shoes she was, probably didn’t even drink, let alone done a hard drug in her life. He wasn’t sure why she was thinking this over so deeply—it was a drug. He was just trying to make some peace offer or anything that might get Charlie acting like her usual self, because he didn’t know what the fuck to do when she got like this.

”...Thanks, I guess?” She looked at him, like he had handed her a jig saw puzzle and not a drug, but frankly, Charlie would probably like a jig saw puzzle more than a drug anyway. Angel reached into his chest fur again and pulled out a lighter. Charlie once again looked at it like it was a bomb he was lighting—it was literally just a drug. He didn’t think he’d keep bombs pressed between his chest and his top—it sounded more like Cherri’s thing, it sounded like it’d double kill him, or at least hurt a lot.

He handed it back to her—she continued to look at it weird and tried to take a drag. She ended up coughing. “Oh, fuck, that’s awful,” she said—Angel laughed. He had expected a lecture, about how drugs weren’t really gonna make him happy and they were a sin, and he wasn’t here to sin, but this was a better reaction, he guessed. A part of him wished he wasn’t sharing drugs, which was pretty selfish, but maybe it’d at least put Charlie in a better mood, and he’d rather lose some drugs then deal with this weird somber mood she was in.

He stole a quick hit and sighed. “Fuck, that’s the good stuff.” He rubbed his temples. Charlie tried to take another drag, and didn’t launch into a coughing fit this time. “You’ve been in hell for like, two hundred years and never done a hard drug?” He asked.

”Not really,” she said. “I’ve never wanted to or anything.”

That sounds weird to him. “Think your dry crusader up there’s gonna be alright knowin’ I offered you this?”

”Oh, Vaggie? She doesn’t like drugs, but she’s not unreasonable about it.” She glanced at the joint in her hand again. “She won’t care that much—and it’s not like one is going to get me addicted, right?”

He shrugged. He wasn’t sure if it was the first time that got him addicted—it could have just as easily been the second, or the third, or the ninth—had he done all those times because he had been addicted the first time? What exactly had him going back to the dust—it was a fucking pain to get, snorting it had been unpleasant, lighting it made it less subtle, more obvious, and his father would have been so fucking pissed...

His father must have been pissed when he overdosed—something about that was hilarious to him. His father finding him, comatose, unable to move or talk or even fucking _think,_ oh, fuck, he must have been so _angry_. Like, angry enough to hit Angel, but he wasn’t the type to hit people when they couldn’t fight back—his father was an immoral dickwad, but he was a specific type of dickwadness.

A part of him wasn’t super clear on what had happened, when he died. He knew he had been in a coma and he knew he had died, so how much did he really care, but he still sometimes craved answers—he could faintly, faintly remember hearing nurses and doctors talking when he was out. Sometimes they had some shit to say, sometimes it was just, _oh, wow, this man’s still out, huh?_ He had never been able to respond—half the time, he never heard people. Sometimes, he could faintly remember a hand holding his, hushed voices—but things were blurry.

He didn’t understand much of it—he had, on occasion, thought about trying to talk to his family, because it was _his_ death and he deserved answers, but he always talked himself out of it, and Val always helped. _Some things aren’t worth knowin’, Angel Baby—you’re already dead._

Charlie sighed. “I’ve never fought with her like this before,” she said.

”Maybe you should break up,” he said.

”I don’t want to break up with her,” she responded. “I love her. It’s... a one time thing, I think. We don’t fight like this, usually.”

”Then don’t break up with her.” Another quick drag—he was waiting for it to hit, it was taking a moment, but he’d get it soon enough. Charlie glanced at him. “I’ve never been in a long term relationship before—once I start fightin’ with them, I drop ‘em. And it’s done.” He also felt the need to note that even those relationships had been pretty few and far in between—he was too busy sleeping with people who paid. Val would hate it if he knew he was selling the merchandise for nothing—and those fights had usually been about his job, because for some reason, no one wanted a relationship with a porn star, and the people he had almost kind of been in a relationship with never really made it worth it the fight he knew it’d be—this was hell. He was there to suffer and strip and get fucked and get high, anyway.

Charlie sighed. “We’ll have to talk about this in the morning, I guess.” She took another quick drag and coughed once into her arm. “Shit, that never feels any better—you really do this for fun?”

He shrugged again. It was the type of fun sex used to be for him—he wasn’t sure what had changed, but now, he had lost all interest in it, in drugs, in sex, in everything. Sex was good when he was having it, most of the time—it felt good, orgasms were a good high, especially if he was already high, but it wasn’t the same as what it had been—nowadays, he didn’t have an interest in much of anything. Sex wasn’t worth the effort anymore, even if he knew it’d feel good—the reason he was still so sexually active was because he had to be, it was his job now. Similarly, he did drugs because they were everywhere and it never felt worth it to obtain them, but he knew it’d never be worth the effort to get clean, and going too long without them made him feel sick.

“...Are you okay?” She asked. “You’re not very talkative tonight. By now, you’d usually make like, three jokes about sex at least.”

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “It’s nothin’,” he said. “Just...tired.” Even though he slept for like, twelve hours.

Charlie and him continued to share his drugs for a bit. “What was the nineteen forties like?” Charlie asked.

”Borin’,” he said. “From what I saw. I was in the... family business, y’know? Took up most of my time. Never got fun stuff, like car windows, or neon signs, or porn you can get on a computer, those weren’t forties things.” It had mostly been, from what he’d seen, some racism, some war, some homophobia—that sort of thing. 

”You’ve never really talked about your family,” Charlie said. “I kind of just assumed they weren’t down here.”

”Oh, they’re down here, alright—bunch o’ motherfucking, damned cocksuckers, they deserve to be down here. Don’t like ‘em.” He was slowly getting high—it was taking a minute, but at least it was working. “I’ve ran into them in the past—never any fun, they hate me.”

”They do?”

He felt something in his stomach twist—they did. They really did. “Only one who didn’t was Molly,” he said. “But she...” He cleared his throat. “Never really considered her part o’ the family, ‘cause she... wasn’t super into the whole mobster thing. I don’t know what happened to her— _she’s_ not down here.” It kind of hurt to think—he’d never see his twin sister again. The only member of the family who hadn’t cared too much about the fact he liked skirts and kissed men, and she wasn’t down here.

”Was the first thing on my mind when I realized the rest of my family was down here. Ran into my brother at some point, in an alleyway, and we somehow managed to keep a somewhat friendly conversation for the better half o’ ten minutes.” He stared at the counter top—there was this weird pressure in his head, behind his eyes. He felt sick with this topic. “He asked me if I hadn’t not seen her down here.”

It was one of the few times he hadn’t seen Arackniss look angry, and he had almost sounded like a concerned older brother. _Ever since you were gone..._ He had shifted, like he was uncomfortable—it hadn’t looked right on him. _She didn’t last much longer. She wasn’t the same. Found her in bed—she was cold, and she was gone, exactly three years after you were dead._

”What happened to her?” Charlie asked, eyes all wide, like she cared about his sister too.

”Committed suicide, I guess—apparently, she was pretty bummed when I died, and fought a lot with our mother and just... wasn’t the same, and just... gave up.” He hadn’t seen her down here, _hadn’t known_. His brother had gotten quiet—then they had started arguing, some two-sided attempt to get their minds off of what they were discussing. Arackniss was a real piece of shit, if you asked Angel, but he still didn’t seem thrilled about the idea of never seeing his baby sister again—and there was always this weird little bit of doubt, like maybe she really _was_ down here, if they could just find her. Or maybe she was double dead now. Or maybe she really was in heaven. There was no way to know.

If he could fix _one_ thing in the entirety of his afterlife, it would have been a conversation with his family. He would have grabbed his brother by the collar, slammed his back against a wall and demanded to know everything about his death, about what happened after he died, about Molly and probably would have asked about him and his parents because _damnit,_ he had a right to know! He deserved some answers—and Arackniss had had the fucking nerve to ask him if he was being forced into sex work, as if maybe beneath the layers of makeup and drag and skimpy clothing, he was suffering and secretly wanted to be a part of their family and their web of crime, wanted to shed the revealing layers and jump back into wool vests and trousers or some shit, back to pretending he had a loving family. The worst part was, Angle had known it was an option, even if it was one he’d never consider. His father would recognize him, if he dressed “like a man.” His mother would be so happy that her youngest was “fixed.” Sure, he would have been unhappy, but it was two different sorts of unhappiness, and maybe the safe, suffocating unhappiness he would have got, knowing his family would never support him but that he didn’t have to worry about getting raped or anything—was this really the better option, he wondered. Yes, he was authentic to himself or some shit, and he liked dressing the way he did and being hit on by guys, but he was so, so tired, non stop, and he was always waiting for Val to snap, to hit him, to rape him, to do something because Angel had done something, and yeah, he hated it, hated Valentino, but at least he was kind of himself—

...It wasn’t like he really had a choice, he reminded himself. He didn’t really have any options, he had chose this path, he had to stick with it.

He still wasn’t sure if he had been concerned or trying to piss him off—he had called Arackniss a son of a bitch. Arackniss called him a cock-sucking drag show. He told Arackniss that he’d sooner bury himself alive before he went home with him to go talk to their parents and get ridiculed for his career choices. Arackniss said their father would snap his neck like a dry twig if he ever saw Angel walking around like that. Angel told him he had the IQ of an actual spider, and a pretty stupid one at that. Arackniss called him a TV crackwhore. Angel said he was just angry to find out the girl he had probably got a hard on for wasn’t just a guy, but his little brother. Arackniss called him a cracked out bitch-dick slut and Angel had finished the argument with “Yeah, well, shootin’ bitches is a lot more fun in a miniskirt and kinky boots, fuck you!” And that had been the end of that.

He had yet to run into any other family members and it was probably for the best. “That’s terrible, Angel Dust,” Charlie said.

”Yeah, well, I haven’t heard the best things about your family, either.”

”Ha, yeah...” Charlie looked at her nails—from this angle, he noticed her nose kinda jutted upwards. It looked almost canine. “I don’t have the greatest parents... But they’re alright when it suits them. I know my father loves me, loves his wife—and he doesn’t care that I’m into girls, so I’m lucky about that.” She leaned back on her stool. “I have no idea how I managed to convince him it was okay for me to date a demon like her. Or to start this hotel. Or anything!”

”How’d the two of you meet?” Angel asked.

”I don’t even know!” She laughed, throwing her head back, shutting her eyes. “She just kind of... appeared. And then we were friends. And she liked to hear me speak languages she didn’t know, said they sounded pretty, and she loved when I sung, and she was a great dancer, and we were best friends, and then, one day, we kissed and we were dating.” She smiled gently. “She smelled like honeycomb. Sometimes, I close my eyes and I can still feel her chapstick on my lips.”

That was pretty romantic. “That’s... nice.” Fuck, he shipped them so hard.

There was a long pause. Charlie got to her feet, still holding the counter. “It’s late. We should get to bed.” She looked at him, and he thought, great, now that they had bonded and he had shared his drugs, she was going to lecture him about it and take them away, but instead she just said, “Get some rest soon, Angel. See you in the morning.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked towards the stairs. She disappeared—in a moment, he heard the door to her and Vaggie’s room shut quietly.

He went to his room and considered getting high as a kite, but didn’t really want to. He tried to sleep—but it never came.

He was already handing Fat Nuggets over to Husk and getting ready to go to work when Charlie and Vaggie came downstairs. Charlie looked well-rested, had brushed out her hair, and wasn’t crying, a stark contrast to the night before—and she was holding hands with Vaggie who looked calm and kept squeezing Charlie’s hand every five seconds, drawing smiles out of her. “Hey, Angel Dust,” she started, which he didn’t think was a good start to a conversation. “Can we talk real quick?”

”I got work, toots,” he said, giving his pig a quick pet because there had never been a gooder pig in this hotel.

”It’s important,” Charlie said. “And it’ll only take a minute.”

He sighed and turned to really face them—Charlie was wearing that look on her face, the exact same expression she had had when she looked at him when he asked what they had been fighting about, and also, the same one she had wore when she had said, _We’ll have to talk about this in the morning, I guess_. “What is it?” He asked.

Charlie took a deep breath—he didn’t like where this was going. “We’ve been doing this wrong,” she said. “...Completely wrong. I thought, we could just manage to get you to stop sinning, and maybe figure out what draws you to all those sins and you’d be cured and you could ascend to heaven, but it’s obvious—it’s obvious that isn’t working. I can take away your drugs, but you’ll get new ones. You can get alcohol literally anywhere in Hell. You still have your job.”

”Where’re ya goin’ with this?”

Charlie exhaled through her nose, slowly. “We want to help you—honestly. And obviously, we haven’t been going about this the right way, and we... we’re trying. We just want to know that you’re trying too. ...And we’re going to try something new.”

”What Charlie’s saying,” Vaggie said. “Is... We’re not happy about the absolute lack in progress you’ve been making these past few months, and we know you originally wanted to only stay here for a free room, and we want to help you, but we need ground rules—and making you go sober and suffer in your room isn’t going to do anything for _literally_ _anyone_ here.”

 _”Eventually,_ ” Charlie said. “We do want you to get clean! And at least cut back on the alcohol! But we’ve been stupid to expect it to happen overnight, and getting frustrated isn’t going to do anything, but we can’t have you rejecting our help and not taking any sort of initiative to get help—so... for now, at least, we’re okay with the drugs. And the drinking—but tomorrow, we’re having a group therapy session.”

”Sounds lame.” It was out before he could stop it. Vaggie looked at him flatly.

”Then don’t think of it as a group therapy session,” Charlie said. “Think of it as... a support group? Whatever you want to call it, we’ve managed to convince everyone in the hotel to show up for it tomorrow night—and if we’re going to continue to put up with your job, and your drinking, and your drugs, we want you there.”

He thought of Niffty, desperate for friends, wanting to go there—being unable to because everyone was waiting on him. He thought of how miserable he’d been feeling, how that tiny part of him really, really did crave _something,_ something that drugs and drinks and sex wasn’t helping with. He didn’t know what going would do for him—but at least, he couldn’t lose anything. “Okay,” he said.

”This isn’t up for negotiation,” Vaggie said. “You’re here for help—if you don’t let us help you, then—“

”I said, ‘okay.’” He crossed his arms. “I’ll be there. I dunno what you think it’s goin’ to do, but I’ll go.”

Charlie blinked. “...Really? I thought you were going to need more convincing. You said it was stupid, right?”

”Yeah, but...” He sighed, gestured to Niffty, tidying up a corner cheerfully. “I owe my girl-buddy a solid, anyway.”

”Morning, Vaggie!” She chirped. “Morning, Charlie!”

”Oh,” Charlie said. “That’s...”

”...Good,” Vaggie said. “That’s... what we wanted.”

”Cool,” he said. “If I don’t leave now for work, my pimp’ll have my head, and that ain’t an exaggeration, can I leave now?”

Charlie brightened. “You can!” She exclaimed. She looked really happy all of a sudden. She grasped a pair of his hands. “We’re really proud of you, Angel Dust!”

Oh, god—that thing he said, about Charlie acting like his mother, and Vaggie being a bitchier mother, that was just getting more and more true. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Charlie still seemed incredibly excited. “Take good care o’ my pig, Husky!”

Shooting today was rough—shooting in general was having a tendency to be rough on him, and had been for the last decade, at least, to the point where he was beginning to wonder why he was so surprised to have a rough day, because they definitely weren’t oddities anymore.

Coming back to the hotel was definitely a relief—he had barely seen Valentino, which was a good thing, and now that he was back at the hotel where Valentino would leave him alone, he could see his pig—which was a great thing.

”Oh, there’s my little mama’s boy!” He scooped up his pig. “Were you a good boy for Husky?”

”He ate all the cherries.” Husk looked at him. “And then tried to follow Niffty into the kitchen.”

”Did you pet him enough?” He asked. “He knows Niffty gives good pets, he musta wanted good pets.” Nuggets squirmed and settled into his arms comfortably. “Thanks again, Husky.”

”Yeah, yeah...”

He went upstairs, held onto Nuggets with two of his arm and was using the third to open the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder. He turned around—Vaggie looked slightly pissed off in the way she might have always. She might have just had a case of resting bitch face. “Hey, Charlie wanted me to give this to you.”

She was holding a picnic basket that was probably Charlie’s, only it was full of drugs. _His_ drugs. He blinked. “...You’re giving those back?”

”What’s it look like?” Vaggie asked.

”A trick,” Angel said. “Or some sorta test. I don’t know what you’re hopin’ to get outta it, because there’s no way in Hell—“ He almost laughed. “—if someone offered me drugs, I’d ever refuse.”

”It’s not a trick, or a test.” Still, Angel didn’t trust her. They stared at each other before Vaggie groaned, “ _Ay, tienes que estar jodidamente bromeando_ —“ She ran a hand through her hair. “—no. This isn’t a trick or test or joke, or whatever. Charlie wanted me to give you your drugs back—one of these days you _are_ going to have to cut back, but we decided that it’s better to be... patient with your rehabilitation and make sure that when you are clean, you stay clean, since going cold turkey is usually worse on people’s mental health—just... don’t make us regret this.”

There was a sticky note on top, a smiley face staring up at him and asking him to be careful with his drugs, to use them smart. “Why would I ever make ya regret giving me a free room to do drugs in, babe?”

Vaggie blinked slowly. “I’m going to go downstairs now before you can piss me off.”

”Sounds good, toots.”

”Oh, _god_.” She turned back on her heel and went downstairs—the fact that he was laughing probably didn’t make her feel any better. He went into his room and placed Fat Nuggets on his bed—who then jumped onto the floor happily—before looking at his drugs. He forgot just how many drugs Charlie had been taking from him. He looked back at the sticky note, two tiny little black dots for eyes, staring into him, piercing straight through him.

The worst part was it almost stopped him from getting high as a kite.

He wasn’t sure if he ever slept at any point in the night because he just remembered petting Fat Nuggets and going on this long rant about how he wished Fat Nuggets was his boss, even though he’d get paid even less because Fat Nuggets had no money to pay him, but at least he’d get to pet him all day. He wasn’t sure if he went to sleep or woke up, but at some point, he got out of bed and put on his usual outfit and picked up his favorite pig because, unfortunately, Fat Nuggets was not his boss and his job was not to pet his pig.

Husk didn’t really need him to say anything—he just sighed when he approached and accepted Fat Nuggets. A part of Angel thought that it was beginning to feel a lot like Husk spent more time with his pig then he did, but he didn’t say that—Husk was just doing him a favor, and he was glad Husk didn’t mind being a pigsitter.

”Don’t forget about tonight!” Charlie said, apparently appearing out of nowhere. “You didn’t forget, did you? About tonight?”

He rubbed his eyes. “Nah,” he said. “I didn’t.”

”You didn’t forget about—“

”No,” he said. “I didn’t forget!”

”Okay!”

It was one of _those_ days, he realized the minute he got to work—one of those days where he couldn’t really put up with much of anything, where just the sound of Valentino’s voice was enough to have his stomach clenching and lungs freezing, and then he couldn’t breathe.

He hated those days—he had to put up with Valentino whether he liked it or not, it just meant he had to push that seething resentment, burning hot in his mind, back down before it bubbled over the surface—because if Valentino saw it...

He didn’t want to think about that. It wouldn’t go well for him, he knew that much, and maybe that was all he should really think about—hating Valentino wasn’t going to do anything for him, he just had to keep quiet about it.

Valentino’s office smelled like smoke—it always did. It was thick, suffocating, and smelled so sweet it made him feel sick—this was Hell. People didn’t really _need_ to breathe down here, but he always felt like he was struggling to breathe when he went into Val’s office, and it felt like a problem. “Ya needed somethin’, boss?”

Valentino looked up at him—for some reason, he looked extra pissed today. If he were to wager a guess, it probably had something to do with either Velvet or Vox, but frankly, he didn’t want to guess. “You’re hungover.”

”I usually am.” This was the best response.

”Better not get in the way of today’s shoot, darlin’,” he said. “I didn’t like how our profits looked last month, so you’re going to have to give your best today, bring them back up for me.”

What, did it drop point two percent? “Whatever you want, Mista Valentino.”

Once again, the right response—he was getting good at this. He could write a book on shit Valentino liked, mostly because it was just people doing what he wanted. “Good boy—if you’re being so nice about that, I’m sure you won’t mind stayin’ longer for me tonight—for that double shift you were going to work.”

No. _No._ “Act—“ His voice cracked—goddamnit. Fuck. He was about nine feet tall in his boots, and he wasn’t sure if he had ever felt smaller by his boss—well. No, he had—he still felt small though. If Val noticed, he’d probably be glad. “Actually, I _did_ kinda have plans for tonight, Mista Valentino—“

”I’m _sure_ you can figure out a way to reschedule, Angel Cakes.”

He couldn’t. He had _agreed_ , the one time he was actually going to cooperate with Charlie on this, and of course something was going to happen, of course. “I don’t think I _can,_ boss—it’s just some... some stupid thing the owners of that hotel I’m stayin’ at want me to do, if I don’t do it, I could lose my room.”

Valentino looked up at him—obviously, he didn’t care. He probably couldn’t care less about his goddamn group therapy/support group thing. “Oh, Angel, baby—you know we can find another place for you to stay.” They could—but it’d mean getting more money from Valentino, and Valentino _had_ the money, but only because he had him, and he seemed pretty intent to wring him dry, until Angel stopped making him any money. Getting more money from Valentino, meant he had to _earn_ more money from Valentino, and Valentino knew how to get more money out of him— _those_ shoots were always the worst.

”Yeah, yeah, I know—it’s just—it’s just better for now, Val, because moving out would be such a hassle, and I got a pigsitter, for my pig, and...” He trailed off. Val looked like he couldn’t possibly care less about his pig or his room or how much of a hassle moving would be.

”If I didn’t know any better, Angel Cakes, I’d think you’re actually interested in that silly little redemption idea.” He looked up. “It’s startin’ to sound a lot more like you’re just tryin’ to find excuses.”

”No,” he said. “No, I’m not—“

”You _know_ how much I hate that word, Angel, baby.” He stopped talking—he wasn’t helping things. He had been doing so good today, too—he hadn’t managed to piss off Val until now. “You don’t say ‘no’ to your boss, sugar.” He curled his hands into fists on his knees—fuck Val, and his tacky glasses, and his suffocating smoke, and his stupid coat, and his sickening voice— “No more excuses—you called in on me the other day and you have to make it up to me. No more sass.”

”I’m going to lose my room,” he said. He didn’t really expect Val to care, but damnit, this was his room, he kinda cared—and maybe a part of him had wanted to go to that stupid support group, but he couldn’t understand why.

Val sighed, like he was beginning to regret having ever let Angel sign that contract, which was rude on multiple levels, the first being that no one had ever made Valentino the amount of money Angel had. “Maybe,” he said. “If you behave during your shoot later today, I’ll be alright with lettin’ you do whatever you need to, for...” He acted like he was thinking about it, but Angel wanted to say there wasn’t so much as a brain up there in his head as there was gears, maybe, grinding and turning while he thought about just how to get what he wanted out of Angel Dust. “...let’s say, three hours before you come back and work a little more—but you’ll have to be a good boy. You _know_ I don’t like it when you misbehave.”

God fucking damnit—this was the best he was going to get. Double shifts were hard enough as they were—three hour breaks were kind of generous, for sure, but he knew Valentino better than to just believe he was in a generous mood. He wanted something—Angel Dust wasn’t sure if he’d be able to survive Val putting any one of his four hands on him today, because if he did, there was a chance he’d try to shove him away, and Val _hated_ getting rejected. Granted, he’d be so exhausted when Valentino did let him go back to the hotel after work, maybe that was enough punishment in his eyes, maybe it’d be enough reassurance that Angel would quit bitching to him.

They stared at each other a moment—Angel tried to think, but there was probably no other way to be able to do this, and he didn’t want Val to take it back and just make him work the double. Then he’d have to explain to Charlie that he missed the support group/group therapy thing because of work, and he just... it didn’t sound like a conversation he wanted to have with Charlie, not like this. He sighed. “...Fine.”

”Oh, that’s not what we say when someone gives us what we want, is it, Angel, baby?” Val got too much enjoyment out of this—but he knew how to get what he wanted out of Angel, had basically had him trained to do what he wanted the first decade he worked for him. The Pavlov effect or some shit—Val used to give him drugs when he did what he wanted! Now, doing what he wanted was expected, and therefore, not rewardable.

He tried not to seethe with anger when he responded—that’d probably piss Valentino off. Usually, other people’s anger angered him. “Whatever you want, Mista Valentino!” He still really didn’t get why Val liked it when he said that, at least, not to the extent to which he did. He must have got off on it or something—being a porn star, it probably shouldn’t have been too surprising that people got off on some of the things he said or did.

He hated the way he smiled—this was what he expected. Angel was just giving in. Some things weren’t worth fighting—he was stuck here for eternity, and he couldn’t fight that. “Good boy. Get out and go get ready for shooting today—y’know what to do.”

He did. He got up from his chair, tried not to clutch at one of his arms like he did when he was nervous, because nowadays it was always a weird mix of anger, resentment and nerves whenever he felt Val’s eyes on him—and he could always feel Val staring at him when he left his office.

The moment the door shut behind him, he started cursing. A string of swears hissed through his teeth, beneath his breath as he moved away, stomach clenched tight—throughout the entirety of the day, he swore he could still smell Valentino’s smoke.

Charlie was holding a clipboard when he came back into the hotel—his hair was just about _ruined_ when he came in, and even though he kept running his fingers through it, he couldn’t make it look the way it usually did. One part of his hair in particular—that one part of his hair that his... partner in the scene he had been shooting about fifteen minutes ago been pulling to manipulate him into whatever the scene called for—wouldn’t stay down, like he was maybe somehow still pulling it.

“Oh, Angel Dust...” She smiled up at him, clutching the clipboard to her chest. He had no idea what was on it—probably glitter glue and colored pencils and nothing actually professional like you’d expect to find on a clipboard. “I was worried you bailed on us, ha...”

She had _no_ idea how close to that it had been—he had spoken to Valentino again, right before he left, trying to remind him that yeah, three hours, he had to be gone for three hours and then he’d do whatever it was he wanted, and that jackass had had the fucking _nerve_ to pretend to think it over. “Nah,” he said. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

Charlie brightened, smiling. “You are!” She had some pretty low standards, but whatever—he was here. He was glad that was enough for her; he wasn’t sure if he really liked her, but she had yet to make him work insane hours, and was giving him a room and food for free.

The lobby of the hotel looked weird—someone had pulled a bunch of chairs to arrange them into a circle. Angel counted six. Niffty sat in one beside Alastor—humming some old song, static still punctuating a few notes like he was always speaking through a radio and Niffty was swinging her feet happily. They didn’t touch the ground—she was talking a mile a minute to Alastor, but he didn’t seem to mind it. Husk was behind the bar, not bothering to hide the fact that he was chugging cheap booze before joining the circle. “We’re gonna get started soon, so go ahead and grab a chair, okay?”

”Okay—I can’t be here for very long, I have ta book it back to the studio after this—” He was going to call it bullshit, but maybe that wouldn’t be the best thing to say to the girl paying for his room and food. She was nicer than Val, at least, and had yet to tell Vaggie to murder him (though he thought he could take her in a fight if he ever had to).

Charlie sighed. “Okay, Angel—but you have to like... actually participate, okay?”

”Okay.” Whatever got this over with faster, he guessed.

He went over to the bar first—his pig behind it, on the floor and out of sight squealed, as if he had noticed his presence. “Mama’s back!” Husk set his bottle down, picked up Fat Nuggets and passed him over the bar to him. “There’s my gorgeous boy! I think ya got cuter while I was gone!” He held him tightly. “Was he a good boy?”

”He was a total fuckin’ monster,” Husk said.

”Not true!” Niffty called from her seat. “He was adorable! And that makes up for it!”

”Sounds ‘bout right ta me,” Angel decided, smiling. “I’m not gonna be here for long, Nugs, Mama’s got a second shift Val’s makin’ me work because he’s a pompous, limp dick bastard that gets off on my sufferin’ so you’re gonna have to be watched by Husky again!” Fat Nuggets snorted.

”Rough day?” Husk asked.

”Rough sex,” he responded. “With absolute jackasses. I don’t get paid enough fo’ this shit and my scalp hurts like fuckin’ hell, and I think I wanted to deck my boss—give me a sip o’ that bottle, Husky.”

He didn’t hesitate to hand it to him. Nuggets seemed perfectly content to just lay in his arms. He didn’t bother to flirt with Husk, just swallowed a mouthful—liquid courage and all that. He handed it back to Husk and sighed. “Better sit down or somethin’, my feet are killin’ me.”

”Probably because you’re in six inch heels,” Husk said.

”But they make me look hot,” he said. “I wear ‘em all the time, ev’ry minute of ev’ry day.”

”Even during your shoots?”

” _Especially_ durin’ my shoots.”

”So the majority of hell is okay with jacking off to a cross dressing, six armed spider with a Brooklynn accent, but his feet is where they draw the line?”

”Exactly,” he said.

He grabbed the chair on Niffty’s other side, the one Alastor wasn’t on and placed his pig on the floor a moment to stretch his arms out—she grinned when she saw him. “You’re actually doing this? Oh, that’s so cool!”

”Yeah,” he sighed, tried again to fix his hair—he wasn’t much a fan of getting his hair pulled, but it was better than most other things he could have to do in the scene. “Not fo’ long though—my boss chose the worst day ta make me work a double, but I managed to convince him to let me off for three hours ta do—“ He gestured in the air wildly, to their surroundings. “—this.” Fat Nuggets nuzzled against his leg, trying to get his attention.

”Ain’t that a bite,” Niffty said. “But the fact that you’re here is pretty boss!” She giggled. Angel realized he never understood half the words that came out of her mouth.

Alastor was looking at him—it wouldn’t have weirded him out so much, if maybe Alastor didn’t rebuff any joke or advance he made, or if he wasn’t wearing that grin he always was, and if it didn’t look so wide, but well, he was and it did. “Ya think over that offer ta suck ya dick?” He asked.

 _”Oh, definitely not, Angel.”_ There was a weird sort of static sound when he said his name—in the back of his mind, he noted that he should be unnerved, and was, slightly. Vaggie had let him know that Alastor was rumored to eat other demons, though he wasn’t sure how true it was—he did know that directly after that conversation, he had gone to the kitchen to grab something to cure his hangover, and had ran into Alastor and they had kinda just stood there, staring and Alastor had grinned almost like he knew.

Husk moved from the bar with a barely hidden flask and sat down on Angel’s side, the one Niffty wasn’t at. He slouched in his chair. “God,” he said, the look in his eyes a thousand miles away, like he didn’t believe in god anymore—understandable. What was it the Bible said, wasn’t it that the atheists would be in hell? He was pretty sure—but not entirely. “This is gonna suck.”

He stared at his hands—and thought about how he had six, and thought about how little Molly had hated spiders in life. She had always needed her brothers to kill them for her, screamed when she saw them. His mother had been just fine with them, squashed them flat easily and then continued on with her day, but not Molly.

It was one of the few things Arackniss would do for them, only because he hated spiders too, and maybe he got some sick joy out of killing tiny, ugly things he hated, and he’d just leave them where they were, usually smeared on the wall by Molly’s bed, just to mess with her.

Faintly, he could remember all three of them cornering one spider in the corner of the living room, Molly voicing her disgust and horror. _He’s an ugly little thing, eh?_ Arackniss had said, sneering down at it.

Without skipping a beat, he had turned to his older brother. _You’re an ugly little thing._

 _And ya act like a girl and I can kick your ass,_ he said.

 _Euuugh, just kill it!_ Molly had screamed and they did—the spider didn’t try to run, like it had known it was gonna die. If Molly _had_ become a demon like the rest of their family in Hell, she probably would have been horrified at the way they all looked—he imagined her flinching every time he spoke with her brothers, or helped her mother with something, or glanced at their father. She probably would scream every time she spoke to someone—or every time she looked in a mirror. No wonder she wasn’t in Hell, she didn’t deserve that sort of suffering.

He picked his pig up and let him curl up in his lap, petting him gently—it almost distracted him.

Charlie clasped her hands together, clambering into her seat. Vaggie was next to her, looking a bit like she was rethinking her life decisions, but she was there, anyway, beside Charlie. “Okay!” She said. “I’m so glad we’re all here! I know it took _some_ of us a bit more convincing than others to get here, but the important thing is we’re here.” She moved her hair over her shoulder and smiled. “What about we all talk about _why_ we’re here. Anyone want to go first?”

She didn’t elaborate— _why they were here._ Here? In hell? Did that mean how they died? What they did to get condemned to hell? Or just what they were doing, attending this stupid support group/group therapy thing? Unsurprisingly, no one, absolutely no one, volunteered.

”...Okay,” Charlie said. “That’s... fair. Alright! I’ll start.” She took a deep breath—and locked eyes with Angel from her spot, smiled sadly, softly. “My father’s condom broke.” There was a pause—this was not what anyone was expecting, apparently. “I wasn’t planned—but I was born, right here in hell. And I’ve lived here for _all_ my life, a few centuries.” She cleared her throat. “My parents never really felt the need to explain the overpopulation thing to me too much—it was always that there was bad people here—this was where the bad people went, and as a result of the many, many bad people, things were getting crowded, so once a year, I was supposed to lock myself into the castle with all the other Hell royalty while we waited for the evil angels to come down and slaughter our subjects, so things didn’t get too crowded.

”And it always felt wrong to me. I never understood—and it’s only been until recently I’ve decided to do something about it, and that’s why this hotel is here. ...I can’t force the masses to seek redemption. I can’t save anyone—but I can’t stand idly by, because I’m not the one who has to worry about getting killed, so I... This is the best I can do. And I’m glad that some of you, at least, are aiming for redemption. I don’t want _any_ of you to have to worry, about those yearly cleanses—and I’m glad all of you are here with me. Because this is what I want, and I want to succeed and help you all, and I know I can only do so much.

”The fact you guys are here, means you’re trying to help yourselves. Thank you for that.”

She beamed brightly. No one seemed to know how to respond, so Vaggie, reaching over and squeezing Charlie’s arm lovingly, spoke up. “I’ll... go next, I guess, hon.” She sighed. “...I think I know why I’m here.” She ran a hand through her hair, chewing on her bottom lip. “...When I was eighteen, I started working as a prostitute. I hated... every second of it, but I needed the money to go to school, if I was gonna make anything out of myself, and I... a part of me really hoped that if I was paid to have sex with men, I might enjoy it. I didn’t think it was... normal. To like girls.

”My mother told me there wasn’t anything wrong with prostitution really—she was very free thinking and stuff. She just told me not to get into the life style, but I never knew what she meant by that.” She groaned and rubbed her temples. “I do now—at some point, I started drinking. It... made work easier. It made the fights with my father over my job easier. It made life easier, because I would drink until I passed out, and every time I passed out, I thought maybe I was dead, but I never was, but I always woke up wishing I was dead.

”...It wasn’t just alcohol either. A... reoccurring client got me hooked on heroin. Ugh, just saying it makes me hate myself. I don’t even know how it happened, I go through it in my mind, and there’s this blank spot, right between when I first started selling my body to when I continued to sell my body, only most of my money ended up going to drugs and alcohol. I wasn’t even a particularly _nice_ drunk, junkie prostitute, and I didn’t want to...

“I remember I got in a wreck. Because I was drunk. And driving, because that’s always a good idea, because drunk people always think they got the best ideas. I woke up in the hospital—and I remember seeing my mother, staring down at me like she didn’t know me, and my father was ranting about how his oldest daughter was a whore, swearing to god something was wrong with me, and then my mother told me she went through my phone...” She cleared her throat. “...I was flirting with a girl at the time. A friend... She flipped her shit when she found out. ...Weirdly enough, my father didn’t mind that, but we got into a fight, while I was still kind of drunk and had a concussion and five stitches on my abdomen, and by the end of the conversation, they had effectively disowned me.

”I...I think I was thinking about that? In my car, right outside a store. I think that’s what I was thinking about. That and the possibility of going clean—I was going to buy my youngest sister a gift for her birthday or something, and...”

She sighed. Charlie reached over and grabbed her hand gently. “...And then some guy got into my car.”

”...Fucking bastard just slid into the passenger seat. Like he did it everyday. I was so stunned, I wasn’t a hundred percent sure what to do, and then he grabbed me... I think he was trying to take off my skirt. I know he had a knife. I know I was scared out of my wits. ...I stabbed him with my pocket knife, but he just ended up stabbing me. Twice in the chest. I aimed for his chest. He stabbed me in the head—and everything went black.”

”I think I was panicking—but he must have died pretty shortly after, from whatever wounds I gave him, because when I woke up dead, in Hell, I saw him and recognized him immediately, and I didn’t _know_ what those yearly cleanses were or that I was in the middle of one, but I’m pretty sure I nearly killed him for killing me—and then it was just kind of a panicked rush to figure out what the hell happened. Everything gets blurry when I think too hard about everything that happened _after_ —but it’s been... six years since then, and I have _refused_ to touch a drop of alcohol, I don’t have to resort to sex work to live, and... I’m here now. I met Charlie, and I supported all of her ideas, including this hotel—when she needed a manager for it, I couldn’t refuse.

“And I’m glad I didn’t, though, in all honesty...” She turned to Charlie, squeezing her hand. “I don’t think I want to get into heaven, not with the best thing that’s ever happened to me down here.”

”Aw!” Charlie was blushing—Angel was pretty sure they were having a hand squeezing competition, and it was almost kind of adorable. “I don’t know what I would do without you, Vaggie...” They both just kind of looked at her. Charlie turned in her chair. “Alastor! You’ve done just as much for this hotel as Vaggie and I—why don’t you go next?”

” _My dear,”_ he started, still with that smile. “ _I’m uncertain if you’d really want me to talk about just what I did to damn myself to Hell—after all, everyone in this room knows what I’ve done.”_

”Well,” Charlie said. “You don’t have to talk about it now—but now’s a chance for you to talk about it and I’d _really_ appreciate it if everyone here at least _tried_ to participate.” She glanced at him—he had the feeling he wouldn’t be able to leave the room until he did share, even if it took over three hours, which left him wondering who’s wrath would be worse—his pimp or Lucifer’s daughter.

Alastor’s smile didn’t shift. _“Very well—if you insist.”_

Angel shifted in his chair—this was gonna be good, he could tell.

_”I had a fairly normal childhood—I faintly remember helping my mother in the kitchen, some of the roaring twenties in my early life, but it was all rather uneventful, for the most part, and then I reached adulthood, became a radio host and promptly went on a killing spree.”_

Alastor went quiet—apparently he was done. Vaggie’s gaze was flat, trained on him. “That’s it? That’s all your going to say?”

” _Would you like me to say more_?” He was still grinning.

”That’s why we’re here,” Charlie said. “...I guess.”

” _Oh, I wouldn’t want to get into too much detail, but...”_ He glanced over his microphone. _“Radio doesn’t have much money in it, and despite how enamored I was with my career it didn’t change how absolutely boring everything else could be. But I managed to find a decent enough way to put food on the table, and a good enough entertainment source._

”...Did you eat people?” Vaggie asked. “Fucking hell, you ate people, didn’t you?”

_”I prefer to think of it as I invited them over for dinner.”_

”Oh my fuck,” Vaggie said.

_”I find it worth mentioning that I do have standards—all of my victims were adults, though, a bit for pragmatic reasons.”_

”I think there’s a lot of room between starving to death in the nineteen thirties and eating people,” Vaggie said.

” _There definitely was—I just didn’t care to explore that room, not when my solution worked perfectly fine. And even when I no longer had a need to, I couldn’t deny the strange urge to continue my killing spree, so I wondered, why stop? I guess at the end of the day, I did it for the same reason I’m here—absolute boredom.”_ He adjusted his grip on his cane/microphone thing. “ _When_ _I was burying my newest victim on a deer hunting ground, some hunting dog found me._

_”Apparently, dogs don’t like smiling. Or eye contact._

_”It managed to grab the attention of it’s owner when it attacked me, and I was mistaken for a deer, shot in the chest. I bled out in moments, there was no saving me, not that he tried. Oh, it might have been the irony that really killed me! I used to go hunting for prey on purpose—a completely unrelated serial killer shot me by mistake and threw my body into the grave I just dug for my newest victim! I still laugh about how dreadfully ironic it all was. My go to reaction showing up in Hell was murdering any demons in my way and broadcasting the carnage.”_

Husk snorted. “As you do.”

 _”As I do.”_ Alastor’s smile hadn’t disappeared off his face—Angel didn’t really blame that dog for attacking him. He wasn’t a dog, but he was still intimidated.

There must have been more to it than that, Angel thought, but he guessed no one really wanted to question it—after all, Alastor was only here for his own amusement. He didn’t seem to care too much about redemption—for himself, or anyone else.

”Oh, wow,” Niffty said. “...That’s really fucked up, Alastor.”

”Don’t you still eat people?” Charlie asked.

” _Not people_ ,” he said. _“Demons._ ”

”...Okay,” she said. He wondered if he just said that with the intention of unnerving everyone in the room—because it worked. “...Thank you for that, Alastor.” He was still grinning. Obviously, none of what he had said bothered him the slightest. “...Anyone else want to go after...” She glanced at Alastor—there was a pop of static. “...that?”

Almost shyly—which was kind of a weird look on her—Niffty raised her hand. Charlie smiled. “Great—you have the floor Niffty.”

”...I have...” She almost seemed to deflate in her chair. “... _an_ idea why I’m here.” The smile on her face looked sad, small beneath her singular giant eye. “...I don’t think I ever did anything bad for the most part. Never drank, or did drugs, I didn’t do much of anything in life, really—my father was barely around, my mom immigrated to America when she was a kid, too young to even really remember much of it, and apparently, she adored my father, but then she caught him doing some back seat bingo with a woman some years younger than her, some easy fuzzy duck when she was pregnant, and she flipped her lid, and he never recovered from that.

”They liked to fight. Some couples had date nights, or hobbies, they just stood in the kitchen and screamed at the top of their lungs! It’s like that short reality there’s nothing more than a blur—I don’t know what happened. I close my eyes and try to think about it, and I don’t remember anything, just staying out of trouble, keeping my head down like my life depended on it. When I was old enough, I ended up getting a husband! The local bird dog, with his apple butter, and his hopped up machine, and his charming smiles—he smiled at you like you were the world and it made you feel like you were. ...I’d kill to feel like that again. He hit on me once and I just about leapt into his arms, we were married within a year. Jumped straight from my father’s house to my husband’s.” She sighed. “...He was nicest when he was drunk. And apparently, he was always drunk and that was why he was so nice to me.. Smoked like a fire. I caught that cheating, rat bastard hitting on nine different women on nine different times—and then just one man. He wasn’t into men. He did it just to piss me off. He said I was cute when I was mad. Oh, that _last_ night, though—we fought like _wow_ over something Mickey Mouse and he slammed my head into a table and I couldn’t stop _laughing,_ because I had turned into my mother, and she had died about a month prior in a fight with my father.

”He always said she was crazy, that she was always angry—it wasn’t until that night I realized what he meant.

Her look’s distant—there’s something _burning_ in her eyes, something Angel doesn’t want to put a name to.

”I think I did something that night. I don’t know what. I-I’ve tried to think it through, really! I just don’t know... Something bad, I think, but I don’t know. I just remember waking up in Hell—and knowing that I did something, something blurry and fuzzy and every time I try and think about it, my sight goes red and I start shaking. I...I’ve looked for my husband, but I can’t find him anywhere—spent a solid year. I...” She tugged at her kerchief. “I know he’s down here, but I can’t find him. Maybe he’s running from me. Maybe he doesn’t want to see me—I’m fine with that! I’m still mad at him! But I... I don’t know, I found my mother down here. We were close for awhile—it was nice.”

Angel frowned—and not just because he didn’t understand half of the syllables that came out of her mouth. “I thought you said your mother wasn’t down here.”

Niffty blinked. “Oh! That was... my mistake, I mean...” She cleared her throat. “She _was_ down here—but she was still pretty unhappy. And then, at some point, one of those extermination days came around, and...” She trailed off. “...Sorry, I don’t mean to lay dead like that—it’s fine, though. I mean, I was really sad when it happened, but I... I think she wanted to... I think it’s fine now, it was two decades ago... I think... I...” She trailed off again—and didn’t start back up.

Angel regretted asking—a weird pang of guilt stabbed at him.

Alastor offered her a handkerchief, his smile almost looking sad, but still looking more intimidating than anything—and the handkerchief was on his microphone, like he didn’t want to actually touch Niffty in giving it to her. Her _thank you_ was quiet, she just sat there sadly while she dabbed at her one giant eye.

He made a mental note to be nicer to Niffty.

Then he realized he was next in the circle. Everyone was looking at him and somehow, his brain froze. “Angel?” Charlie said. “Aren’t you gonna participate?”

He didn’t want to. His response was on his lips, a casual _Nah,_ but he knew he was supposed to say _something_. Where the fuck did he start? Where did he stop? Was this really necessary for redemption?

 _Fuck._ Husk looked somewhat concerned at him. He didn’t know what to say—he felt stupid. His stomach tied itself into a tight little knot. “I can go next,” Husk said, glancing at him like he was about to explode.

 _Thank Hell_ , he thought. He was gonna have to give his favorite bar cat a _proper_ thank you at some point for this little rescue.

”Oh, god—why the hell _am_ I here?” He brought his flask out, took a swig. “Grew up in a casino. Family run, was a tradition, so it was also kinda tradition to have a gambling addiction and smoke every day. Another family tradition or some shit to join the army, I joined pretty young and ended up fighting in the Vietnam war—war is worse than hell, I killed people, I hate myself for it, and I’m not a hundred percent sure whyI fought in it. At some point, I just wanted to forget about it, couldn’t, and snapped, and now I’m here and I’m still angry about it.”

...Fuck, that was short. Charlie smiled sympathetically, but Husk just took another, much larger, swig from his flask and slumped in his chair a bit more. Once again, all eyes were on him.

He shrugged. “I was in a mafia family—my father mighta been in it for a _while_ , married my mother. She didn’t wanna commit any crimes ‘erself, but she knew what he did, never seemed to mind it, either. I had a twin sister I was close with, older brother, and my father raised us the way he was raised, and he mighta almost enjoyed beatin’ his kids, which is probably why he stopped when my sister and I were twelve.

“He was a screamer. Short temper. But my mom also had a short temper. Every one in my family did. No one was emotionally intelligent in the forties, I guess...” He crossed a pair of arms, tried not to squirm with how uncomfortable he was—he didn’t want to talk about this. “Think both o’ my parents hated me, and me specifically—my mom thought I was just actin’ out or somethin’, didn’t think I actually _liked_ skirts or anythin’ and never cared when I insisted I did. My father thought he could beat it outta me, but didn’t think he was supposed to enjoy beatin’ ‘is kids, so instead of doin’ it ‘imself, he just gave me tough jobs and tried to get me to help with the family business more, like maybe the violence would somehow turn me straight, and they probably knew I was gay, but no one ever said it in front o’ me, but they were so aggressive in their insistin’ I start showin’ an interest in girls, I knew they didn’t like it, knew I couldn’t ever tell ‘em, if they couldn’t even tell me they knew.

”They loved my older brother though—he didn’t like me, but he didn’t like much o’ anythin’, bastard always looked fuckin’ miserable. My father made us do some stupid drug deal once—didn’t go so good, we ended up killing six people, but I only really got one. ...He got the other five.

”...For a minute there, it actually kinda looked like he was finally enjoyin’ somethin’. Don’t quite remember when exactly I started doin’ angel dust, dunno how long for, a few years? I think I had a few more kills under my belt? But it wasn’t too long after I turned thirty with Molly that I got into some stupid ass fight with my father about some bullshit, and I think I insulted ‘im and my brother and my mother, and then I overdosed on PCP somehow.

”My parents musta been _pissed_.” He grinned—he couldn’t help it. Didn’t it serve them right though? Wasn’t like Angel had cared, he’d been high and then comatose. “I got stuck in a coma—dunno really what the fuck ‘appened, then. My father mighta pissed someone off, or maybe it was someone who knew someone I killed, or somethin’, but while I was out, some guy shot me in the head, I guess, and I wasn’t comatose anymore—not like I would have lasted too long anyway, in a coma like that, it was the forties.”

He swallowed—he had always kind of considered reaching out to his brother specifically, to get more information on what had happened, because he probably knew, but it got to the point where he couldn’t even recall what the fuck he’d been feuding with his family about before he died, and he couldn’t continue the argument and defend his previous position if he didn’t know what it was. “...I was a stripper for awhile—I liked it. Liked the attention. Didn’t feel demeaning or whatever, it was a choice, a choice _I_ made, and I could do it in thigh highs and eyeliner, because who the fuck was gonna stop me, it was hell. Barely fuckin’ knew what eyeliner fuckin’ _was_ until I was in hell.”

He swallowed _again_ —there was a lump rising into his throat. “Valentino found me at some point, offered me a contract. Place to live, chance to continue my work, and all the drugs I could ever fuckin’ want, and all I had to do was work for him, and it was only gonna last a century before the contract was over, unless I wanted another one.” He had to clench his hands into fists so they didn’t stop shaking.

Vaggie looked at him, almost distant. “You signed it?” 

”Yeah,” he said.

Her look was almost incredulous. “...An overlord of hell approached you with a contract like that and you signed it.” _A contract like that_ —it felt like so much more than a contract, it was everything he could want. Everything had been exciting. He was dead but he had never felt so alive. And what was a century to an eternity? But it was all a lie—and Vaggie knew what a stupid fucking idea it had been.

He felt like he had to defend the stupidest action he had ever taken in his life. “I wasn’t sober, bitch,” he said, but the venom in his words was weak.

She looked horrified. “ _Oh Dios mío_ , holy _fuck,_ Angel Dust.”

”Yeah,” he said. “...I almost didn’t sign it.”

He had known he was drunk, he was high, he wasn’t thinking clear. The offer had sounded good, amazing, he wanted to accept—but then he had blinked. _Nah,_ he said. _I should think it over, I’m so fuckin’ high. Maybe when I’m sober._

Valentino had smiled, his horrible pink smoke almost drowning out the world around them, sickeningly sweet smelling. _Oh, but you don’t want to be sober, Angel Cakes, do you?_

No. No, he fucking hadn’t—and there that contract was, a way to never have to be sober. It was a win-win situation. What was a century to the rest of eternity? What would the bad times be if he could numb it with drugs? “I shouldn’t have signed it,” he said.

”So,” Niffty said, looking up at him. “You’re stuck working for him until your century’s up.”

He gritted his teeth. “Originally—but if I was sober and read the contract, I would have realized that the drugs he was giving me was actually putting me farther in debt.” It wasn’t just the drugs, either—his housing, every last _gift_ Valentino bought him... “...He didn’t want to be paid back in cash, though—he wanted me to work for him longer.” He might have honestly been able to pay him back, maybe, if he tried, if Valentino would accept his money, but Angel’s money quickly became Valentino’s money through all sorts of bullshit reasons he’d been trying to fight, but how long could he fight, really?

”We, uh... talked about it. At some point.” Not really—he had gotten into a conversation about a co-worker, who was apparently having a _much_ more different time at this job then he was, a decade or two or three, maybe, after he had first started doing pornos, back when he was _convinced_ this was some sort of rough patch he could almost completely numb with drugs until the end. Her words had lead to him doing a bit more research.

He had confronted Valentino about it, angrily—he had just smiled. _You signed a contact, Angel Baby,_ he had said. _You agreed to this._ “He wanted me to live at the studio—housing woulda been another thing puttin’ me in debt, and I’d basically work for him for all eternity, high outta my mind to keep it from ever bein’ a problem, but I... didn’t like that idea.” Something had clicked—about his weird advances that he _almost_ kind of rejected, about how all he really seemed to care about was how much Angel was making, and every question he asked was answered with a shit ton of liquid PCP on some marijuana to smoke, and he had known then that he couldn’t trust Valentino. “So instead, it quickly became I was gonna be livin’ at an apartment ‘bout thirteen blocks away from the studio and I was basically on my own, and the money that woulda gone to housin’ me in the studio would pay off my debt.”

And then, of course, Val had kept it an option on the table—he could always admit defeat. Val would give him a room at the studio. He would let his little Angel get as goddamn high as he wanted if he was good, if he made him money—and he just needed to stick around for it, until Val got sick of him or never, because why would Angel want a crappy apartment so far from work, and would want so many less drugs and alcohol than he could get ideally? “...At this rate, I’ll actually be able ta leave ’im in twenty one sixty three.”

Everyone looked at him. Vaggie blinked. “That’s fucked up,” she said.

That wasn’t even scratching the surface. At first when he had confronted Val about it, he had only smiled—he had _waited_ for Angel to stop, told him it was his fault for letting his guard down in Hell, signing the damn contract anyway. He should have been smarter about it—he had known Angel was the type to fall for it, and he did, and getting upset wouldn’t change the agreement. He had said he’d never be able to pay off this debt, that the way this whole thing was designed was to make sure Angel was in debt and stayed in debt, and Val had said that, yes, that was about it. He had gotten angry—he made Valentino billions of dollars, and that wasn’t enough to pay off his debt? Valentino had said that technically, it was, but the agreement had already secured him that money, and Angel needed to pay it off with his own, or continue to work to pay it off, and when he had proceeded to get angrier, Val had told him to get out of his office and get ready for his next shoot or he’d make him sign again for an extra two decades, just for being a brat about it.

He had said, _I ain’t gonna sign that contract—this whole experience taught me I can’t trust ya._

Val had said, _I can make you do whatever the fuck I want with this contract, baby, and if I decide to force you to sign this other contract, you’re going to have to._

_That’s not how contracts work!_

_It is in Hell, because I made this contract and no one’s gonna correct me otherwise—do you want me to make it three decades?_

And then, on top of that, he made Angel work insane hours because he could—and Angel wouldn’t get that money, and how much he worked didn’t affect his housing or his debt, so it was just a way to try and get him to give in to Valentino’s demands, and it was honestly starting to work. The work was wearing him down—Valentino would dial it back if he gave up, and if he gave up, he’d get more drugs, a better living space—

...Sometimes, he didn’t know why he didn’t give up. “Ya think that’s bad?” He asked. “He fuckin’ flipped his lid when he heard I was stayin’ at this hotel—“ And that was kind of his fault. “Hates this place. Whole point o’ my apartment was that it sucked and I couldn’t pay rent, and now that you’re givin’ me a free room, he thinks you’re some enemy, tryin’ ta make him lose money or somethin’.”

Charlie met his eyes—there was something steely in them, strong. “I’m not worried about him.”

”Ya should be.” He _was_ worried about him—he had been worrying about Valentino for a few decades, hadn’t he? Frankly, even with the amount he worried, he wasn’t sure he worried enough.

”We can handle him,” Charlie said. “...Is that why you’re not against getting clean?”

He shrugged. “Drugs are just another thing he can hold against me,” he said, because that was what he did. Everything had a price tag, everything was conditional—when (because it really felt like a matter of _when_ he gave up and had to go to the studio, throw in the towel and resign himself to an eternity of doing whatever the fuck Valentino wanted him to do) he did go back to the studio, he’s get tons of drugs, yeah, so long as he kept making Val the money he was. If profits started to decrease, he’d probably stop, he could just _hear_ his horrible voice in his ears, promising him more drugs when he got more money, that if he really, really wanted more, he better try to figure out how to increase profits for them both and this was only fair, and it wasn’t his fault he wasn’t bringing money in anymore—

That hadn’t happened yet, he reminded himself, because he was already getting angry about this. “Everything’s got a price,” he said—and he really couldn’t afford any of this anymore, but this was his fault, wasn’t it? He never should have signed that contract. He _deserved this_.

He felt so bare, so exposed. He felt fucking stupid. He brought his pig closer, a little less on his lap, and more like against his chest. Nuggets shifted, but didn’t seem to mind.

There was a long moment of silence and no one seemed to know what exactly to do or say. Charlie cleared her throat. “Okay, everyone,” she said. “This is... more than I could have hoped for. Thank you _so_ much for participating—what about we aim for another one of these meeting things next month?”

It sounded too soon—Angel didn’t think he could open up like this again, it felt like he had spoken longer than anyone else, like he said too much, and really, what did it matter? He had no chance at redemption, this was _pointless._

Husk sighed when he handed Nuggets over. “Ya think you’ll be okay watchin’ him a little longer?”

”How long am I gonna watch him for?”

He felt guilty. “Another shift.”

”I spend more fucking time with your fucking pig then you do.”

”I know,” he sighed. “I know—Val’s makin’ me work a double, because I called in that other day. I might be able to get off early, if he’s somewhat a good mood, but I doubt it.”

”Fuck,” Husk said. “I should really make you start payin’ me or something, Christ. Go ahead and go—I’ll watch your pig.”

”You’re a lifesaver, Husky.” He pet his pig. “Be good for Husky, Nugs!” 

He left relatively quickly—he swore he could feel Charlie’s gaze on him as he walked out the door.

It seemed to come out of the blue—there, Valentino sat in his tacky glasses and stupid jacket, eyes focused on him in a way that made his stomach churn. “Oh, Angel Baby, you look exhausted.”

He was exhausted. He had just got back from one of the worst clients he’d ever had—fuck that broad. His thighs were bruised like hell. “Just a second shift,” he said—second shifts always left him exhausted. And then, since he’d be working the next day, too, he had a bit to rest before continuing on completely exhausted until he collapsed from the exhaustion he felt and hopefully, never, ever got back up.

“That’s not going to get in the way of work now, is it?” He almost seemed to be grinning—of course, he was, though.

“No,” he said—and then remembered how much Val hated being told no, and tried to backtrack, “Course not, Mista Valentino.”

He looked at him like he didn’t believe him—but half the things he made Angel say were lies anyway. It was like he blinked—he totally missed Val opening a drawer and putting something down, but all of a sudden, there was a line of white dust on the desk. “Maybe this will help you, baby.”

He swallowed. “I’ll be fine,” he said—rejecting anything Valentino did usually didn’t go over well. “Thanks, though?”

”My drugs aren’t good enough for you now, baby cakes?”

”No,” he said. “That’s not it.” _I just can’t afford your drugs now._

”Fine. I just assumed you were desperate enough to accept mine—I didn’t think you liked going behind my back for drug money, Angel.”

His blood ran cold—his heart dropped from his chest into his stomach. “What?”

Had he been holding a cigar the entire time? Angel wasn’t sure, but the tip was lit and smoking, toxic and pink and sweet and moving towards him like it was gonna wrap around his throat. “I know,” Val said.

...Fuck. That was bad. “Val, I—“ His voice cracked—he swore he saw amusement in his eyes, because he liked to watch Angel squirm. “I wouldn’t—“

”You did,” Val said. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out, baby? Is that it?”

He had hoped! Oh, fuck—oh, fuck—

One of Val’s hands reached across his desk to cup his chin in a tight grip, forcing eye contact. “Do you remember, what I used to say, baby cakes—“ Fuck him, fuck Val, fuck this damn job! “Regardin’ you, work, and my affairs?”

His heart was pounding. He really didn’t want to push Val anymore. “Val, I—“

His hand moved from his chin to his hair, slamming his face into the desk in front of him with a sharp yank—it hurt, but he was more surprised than anything. “I asked you a question, Angie.”

He told himself he should have expected this. He was lucky Valentino didn’t do worse. “You told me to stay in the studio—“ He pulled back, away from his hands, which was honestly a poor decision, but it was a bit too late and he wasn’t going to move _back_. “—but that was different, I lived in the studio—“

Valentino spoke right over him. “—and why, do ya think, I was so insistent you stay in the studio all the time?”

He swallowed, but couldn’t will himself to speak up—at the very least, Valentino didn’t seem to get much angrier about that specifically. He clicked his tongue like he was disappointed, and took it upon himself to remind him. “Angel Cakes, you live in Hell—you can’t go for a walk without findin’ your face plastered on billboards. Everyone in the Lust district knows your name, baby, and I’d be willing to bet every last cent you’ve made me that some _real_ sick demons would love nothin’ more than to get their hands on you. What do you think they’d do to you, if they found you on the street, and you’d take a fifty to follow them wherever they want?”

He didn’t want to answer. “Angie, baby, I asked you a question. Answer me—what do you think they’d do to you?”

His mouth felt dry—maybe he should have taken that line Valentino poured, it’d probably hit right about now, and then maybe it’d numb the absolute fear he felt for this conversation. “Nothing good...”

”Nothing good for _you,”_ Valentino corrected. “And nothing good for business, either, baby. You know about supply and demand, don’t you?” He didn’t want to talk about this, didn’t want to even look at Valentino, but he just grabbed his face again and didn’t let go, apparently intent to make sure he had Angel’s _complete_ attention. “Demand for you is high, and if we keep you in short supply, we can charge your clients more for you—so we need you nice and sparse to make a profit. Do you think anyone’s going to pay a thousand an hour if they know they can just offer you some cocaine on the street and have their way with you?”

”I’m sorry,” he said, but he already knew that that wasn’t going to be enough—Valentino wouldn’t care at all about his apologies. He cared about profits, and in his eyes, all Angel was doing was threatening them with his actions.

”Now, _normally_ , I’d make you do something to make sure you learn your lesson and make it up to me, but I’m not entirely sure what to do with you right now, Angie Cakes...” He squeezed again, harder. “Obviously, I’m not about to make you stand on a street corner, because obviously, you’re gettin’ a bit too much enjoyment out of being treated like a ten cent whore, and you just worked a double shift—we both know how much of a bitch you turn into when you work too many shifts, and the last thing we need is to try and find another punishment for you, like this isn’t enough—“ This was seriously hurting. “I have half a mind to just keep you at the studio, where you can’t cause any trouble, and I can make sure you stay in line.”

He kept his voice quiet—Val liked it when he was dejected, when he knew he was beaten. “I won’t do it again, Mista Valentino—honest.”

”Of course you won’t, Angie—I’m goin’ to make sure you don’t, as soon as I figure out how.” He sighed. “Of course, you’d probably just be worse kept in the studio like that...” His fingers tightened again—it might have been unconscious, but he knew Valentino wasn’t against the idea of hurting him right now. “...Unless I keep you doped up enough.”

He didn’t want any of Valentino’s drugs. “I got a pig,” he said. “I have an afterlife outside of the studio—“

”Maybe you should have thought about what could have happened if I caught you, before you started going behind my back, Angel Cakes. If you needed drugs that badly, I would have given you some—but you didn’t want mine, no, you just wanted to give me a headache.”

Definitely—but also, no. “No, I’m sorry, I just needed some money—y’know all my profits go to ya, Val, I was desperate.”

”Not desperate enough,” he said. Maybe? He didn’t know, fuck, he didn’t know. “I let you keep your tips from your clients, don’t I? Maybe I should fix that.” He sighed, took a drag from his cigar. “How many times have you done this, baby? Be honest, I’m done playing games.”

”N-Not much,” he said, though he hadn’t really been counting. “Just...” Okay, he really wasn’t sure, but he felt like the actual number would just make Val angry, but he didn’t even know the actual number. “...Probably ‘bout nine times?” It was definitely more.

”’Probably,’” Valentino quoted. “You _probably_ should have known it was a bad idea, Angel—do you like streetwalking? Is that it? You’re lucky I don’t act on my threat, to handcuff you to a bed. Leave you alone for a few months, might even be able to make a profit off of that, and I bet when I let you out, you’ll be ready to behave like a good boy for me.”

He swallowed. “How much money do you usually charge when I don’t know?” Valentino asked.

”The most recent one was only four hundred.” And twenty, but fuck him.

”Selling yourself short there, Angel Cakes.” He wanted to look away, wanted to put as much distance as possible between him and his pimp. He titled his head back, hand slipping down like he was considering shifting his grip to around his throat. “I don’t have any other ideas, Angie, baby—what do you want to do to make this up to me?”

Nothing. He wanted Valentino to suffer and live in poverty and get murdered, hopefully, and for someone to find his body in a ditch somewhere—but it’d take a way stronger demon to ever get anything close to that, and that wasn’t Angel. _I don’t want to make it up to you, Boss—I want you to fuck off and leave me alone for the rest of eternity_. Hell, that’d make him mad—that’d cut his afterlife short. You didn’t really talk back to Valentino like that, not when he was already this mad.

The worst part of this was he knew exactly what to do to make it up to Val—he was going to hate himself for every last minute of it, and Valentino would get off knowing how much Angel hated it. If he was lucky, drugs were still on the table, and maybe an extra year working for Valentino would be worth it to make what he was about to do a dull blur he could forget eventually. If he wasn’t lucky, Val would tell him it wasn’t on the table and sweep all of that pure, perfect dust onto the floor—Val never liked it quiet either, he took some sick pleasure in making sure Angel Dust was fully aware of what was happening when he got like this, he wanted him to know that as much as he tried to fight it, Val could just do what he wanted with him, and no one could stop him, especially Angel.

”I can suck ya dick,” he said.

Valentino laughed but it had no real humor in it. He let go—Angel rubbed at his neck briefly. “I’ve been suckin’ a lot of dick recently, Daddy...” He forced himself to spread his legs in his chair, instead of keeping them crossed—he hoped the name would put him in somewhat of a better mood. “I’m gettin’ good.”

This was second nature to him—it was some sort of character, one that took up what seemed to be at least half of his afterlife. People in Hell lost it for his sweet, slutty persona, and it wasn’t that difficult to put on—and Val seemed to love his persona the most, liked it when he batted his eyelashes and bit his lip and called him _Daddy_. Sweet, sexy, and submissive—that was all he had to be, and this wouldn’t last for much longer than an hour, or maybe two, depending on how pissed Val really was.

“Are you now, baby?”

He hated himself already—this was just going to get worse, but whatever worked, he guessed. This was better than whatever else could earn him Valentino’s wrath. “Yes, Daddy,” he said. The words felt wrong, settled on his tongue—they tasted like when you took ibuprofen, and let it rest too long on your tongue instead of swallowing, only about a thousand times worse, which must have made it sound better to Val.

This was commonplace at this point—he didn’t know how often he had to do this with Valentino, just _pretty often_. If his sales went down, or—more likely—just didn’t go up enough, he had to make it up to Valentino, prove he did know what he was doing and was more than willing to try to bring sales up. If he pissed off Vox and they had a specific type of messy breakup that left Valentino pissed, he needed Angel Dust to take his anger out on. If Angel said something he didn’t like, how he hated a shoot because he really didn’t like sleeping with women, or how a good paying client had somehow managed to be so damn unpleasant they really hadn’t been worth the money, then Valentino needed him to be good for awhile, to make it up to him.

Two of his hands grabbed him around his waist and pulled him onto the desk. One other hand wandered over his chest and the other cupped one of his thighs. That self-loathing rising from his chest to the back of his head multiplied by at least ten, and then twenty when Valentino squeezed. “Take off your jacket, Angel Cakes.”

There was something weirdly humiliating about having to strip yourself down in front of someone—when you didn’t want to. Just about any client, or literally anyone other than Val, Angel was fine. Doing it for Valentino made him feel sick and weirdly bare and exposed, and he flat out didn’t like it. Valentino didn’t even make him do it often—usually he just tore his clothes off, because he was a self serving motherfucker who only cared about himself and his enjoyment when he abused his employees. ”’Course you’re too much o’ a stupid bastard ta do it yourself,” he said.

He did not know why he said that.

Apparently, Valentino didn’t either—but honestly, the confusion on his face was so gratifying, it almost made what he knew was coming worth it.

Almost.

Walking back to the hotel was particularly embarrassing, probably because he wasn’t walking so much as he was limping. The hotel had never felt farther away, and he almost wished he wasn’t wearing his usual high heeled boots because it just made it extra unbearable, but he completely refused to stop for any breaks on his walk/limp.

Probably because for the—he checked his phone—three hours he had ’talked’ with Valentino, he hadn’t fucking shut up. He had gone on and on about how stupid Angel Dust had been for going behind his back, called him a crackwhore at least twice, and had overall left him slightly paranoid about walking back to the hotel by himself during night. On top of their ‘conversation,’ he was further in debt for selling the goods (even though they were _his_ goods) and he was pretty sure Val’d be shaking him down for any tips he got from clients, which was never a good thing.

But this was hell—maybe the fucking problem was Angel Dust expected anything relatively good to ever happen, ever.

At several points, he almost stopped, but back at the hotel was his pig, and a hot bartender, and alcohol, and drugs, and above all, _his bed._ Fuck, he was exhausted—he wanted to go to sleep. But sleeping on the streets would probably be a bad decision, and the streets didn’t have his pig, so, there was that.

He loved his pig, damnit!

Sooner he got to the hotel, sooner he could try to relax and maybe get shitfaced drunk so he wouldn’t remember any of tonight. That’d be great.

Being raped by Valentino almost had him forgetting about that support group bullshit he had been a part of. Fuck, did he feel stupid.

Like, really fucking stupid—it was just getting worse, he kept replaying what he had said in his mind, feeling progressively worse about it. He had spoke too much, he shouldn’t have spoke at all, there was no point in having told all of them all that he did—

The hotel was in sight, finally. He sighed—he was going to text Cherri some, they hadn’t spoken in awhile, and it was always nice to talk to her. She understood some things—sometimes, it was like she could read minds, and all the time, she was nice to be around, especially when he was like _this_.

The lobby was still lit, even though it was so late, it was early, it was basically morning and no one should be awake. He thought for sure, he’d find Husk at the bar with his pig, absolutely hating him for making him stay up so late, but instead, his pig was laying on the floor in front of the bar, fast asleep, and Vaggie sat at the counter, sipping a glass.

”Fuck,” he said, the minute he saw her. He shifted on his legs, so it wasn’t obvious he was limping and had limped the entire way back.

Vaggie didn’t say anything—they just stared at each other before Angel finally asked, “Where’s Husk?”

”Asleep,” Vaggie said. “I found him passed out at the bar, I told him to get to bed.” She gestured to Fat Nuggets on the floor. “Niffty and I watched him for awhile, and then Charlie woke up and wondered where I was, and sung him a lullaby and now he’s asleep.”

He looked so peaceful—he was so lucky to have such a cute pig. He knelt down—tried to ignore the horrible pain in his body that throbbed when he did _anything_ —and scooped up his pig, but he was still out. “Thanks, I guess,” he said.

She must have caught his grimace or something, because when he looked up at her, it was like something clicked. “How often?” She asked.

”Not very,” he said—it was a lie. “It was my fault this time.”

Vaggie nodded, took a sip of her drink—it looked clear and bubbly, probably ginger ale or something boring. “I’ve heard rumors about how he treats his employees.”

”Ya don’t know the half o’ it,” he said. “Is this gonna turn into a lecture, about the dangers o’ sex work and how terrible it is and shit?”

“No,” she said. “A lecture won’t do either of us any good.” They started at each other a minute. “...Do you know what’s been happening to all the ice?”

”Niffty,” he said. “She likes to eat it.”

She pursed her lips into a frown. “She _eats_ the ice?”

”Yeah,” Angel said.

”She’s gonna break a tooth.”

”She’ll be fine, ice isn’t that hard.”

”Hail can crack windshields and stuff.”

”Niffty ain’t made of glass,” Angel insisted. “I once saw her trip and roll down every last flight of stairs, ‘fore sprawlin’ out at the bottom on the floor. She hopped up like it was nothin’, like she hadn’t done so much as scrape her knee.”

Vaggie nodded. “I did once hit her with a door—I don’t know what she was doing behind there. She seemed fine afterwards.”

”She’s made o’ steel,” he said. Probably a good quality to have when you were in Hell. “The hell are you still up?”

”Why are _you_ still up?” She asked. “You must be exhausted—and you don’t even look high.”

”Ugh, don’t remind me, babe.” He shifted Nuggets in his arms carefully to grab a bottle from behind the counter and poured it into a glass—nothing else. Just straight liquor—something to numb the painful hatred he felt for literally everything that moved because Nuggets did move, and he couldn’t hate his pig, at the very least, he couldn’t hate his pig. “Its not by choice.” If he had a choice, he’d be high for the entirety of his afterlife.

“Right.”

They continued to drink in silence. At some point, Fat Nuggets started to squirm in his arms, kissed his wrist, but when he shifted his arms so he had more support, he went back to sleep. “Do you have to work another shift soon?”

”Nine thirty,” he said. “AM. Sharp.” He needed more liquor than this, but his bed was calling his name. He’d finish his glass and go back to bed. “I’m on thin ice as it is—if I’m late, Valentino would have my fuckin’ head.” He wondered if that’d kill him, but he had the feeling it wouldn’t. Honestly, Valentino would probably just think it a good opportunity to do some really kinky shit for a scene or two, even if the script for whatever porno he was doing hadn’t called for it beforehand.

”Wow,” Vaggie said. “He sounds like a real piece of shit.”

”Yeah, and I’ve been dealin’ with him for the better half o’ a century. He acts more like a piece of shit than he sounds.”

”Just a really shitty person in general?”

”Yeah.”

Silence slips into the room once more and Vaggie clears her throat awkwardly—they’ve never really been alone together like this, and he had always assumed they’d get into a fight if they were alone like this, but somehow it’s just... weird. “I better get to bed,” she said. “Charlie always knows when I get to bed late, can’t stand it.” She stood up. “But um...” She sighed and moved some hair out of her face. “I’m speaking for both of us when I say that we’re um... really proud of you for attending the support group thing—especially since it was so hard for you to attend, and you participated.”

”Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Why don’t ya give me a gold star or somethin’.”

”Don’t say that out loud! You want to give Charlie ideas? I’m not even against her weird point systems she can come up with, but the gold stars would be covered in so much glitter, we’d go blind.” That did kind of sound like Charlie. “Night, Angel Dust.”

He didn’t respond. The minute she turned her back, he just went ahead and downed the bottle he had drank from.

His tossing and turning was upsetting Nuggets, so he gave up on going to sleep. His room was bathed in darkness, fleeting dreams lurked behind his eyelids—sometimes about his sister, or his brother, or his family in general, and sometimes about work or some shit. Torn between staring at the ceiling and hating everything while he slowly went insane from sleep deprivation and shrieking like a banshee until he got it out of his system, he was trying to find some alternative that’d make him feel better.

The same thing kept replaying in his head. One of Valentino’s hands around two of his wrists, keeping him pinned, another holding his chin and making him make eye contact, the other two on his hips, the sick bastard’s voice—

He felt sick. He groped the bedside table until he found his phone, pressed his pillow over his face while it rang.

Cherri’s voice sounded from his hellphone, _“Hello?_ ”

”Cherri,” he said. “I got off a double shift an hour ago, have another five hours from now, an’ I feel like burnin’ down some shit.”

” _Oh my god, I will help you burn down some shit.”_

Maybe the alcohol was catching up with him—or maybe it really was Cherri, because near immediately, something came crashing down and it was like he could finally, briefly relax. He sank into his pillow, now beneath his head.”Thanks, Sugartits.”

There was some shuffling. “ _Did that sicko do it again?”_ She didn’t need to specify what she was referring to, and even though he hadn’t spoken a word, she somehow already knew the answer to her question. “ _That son of a bitch, I’m gonna set him on fire.”_

”Please,” he said. “ _Do it._ ”

” _I’m going to soak him in gasoline, him and his rich, evil little studio. Gonna blow that shit up. Gonna leave a porn studio sized crater in the Lust District because fuck that moth.”_

He chuckled, but it sounded weak. “I can’t sleep,” he said.

” _I couldn’t either—I’m drinking more than I have. Ate a ton of fries. And for some reason, I like, really want to buy a bird right now? Do they have birds down here? I feel like I could take care of one, they look friendly. Maybe I can teach it to set fires or something, we can be partners in crime. ...Real talk though, what did he do this time?”_

He gently pet Nuggets some more, but he slept soundly. “It was my fault,” he said. “He was already angry—he found out I’ve been goin’ behind his back to get some extra cash.” Cherri sucked in a breath, like she already knew where this was going. “I was supposed ta... make it up ta ‘im, but I...” He swallowed. “I got mouthy. Don’t even know why I said it.” Valentino had just kind of gaped at him for a moment—and then had barked out a laugh and Angel had known he’d fucked up. He shivered—he had to grab that blanket at his feet and bring it up, because he was cold, but he still somehow felt warm. He must have been coming down with something.

” _Angie_ ,” she said—but all he could think about was Val, _Angie, you know better than this_ , _what did you think was gonna happen? This is your fault_.— “ _You know what he does to you isn’t your fault—he’s just..._ ” Something creaked on her end. “ _Just some sick, perverted asshole who gets off of people’s suffering—and he found a way to make you suffer. If it wasn’t you, it would have been some other demon, and if this didn’t piss him off, it would have been some other minor thing, he’s just one of those assholes who knows that he’s stronger than you and can use shit against you, he’s just a total batshit motherfucker who deserves to die.”_

He could still hear his stupid voice. “Can I ask a solid?”

” _Of course_.”

He swallowed. “I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout him, hearin’ his voice—can you just like, keep callin’ me Angie ‘til it feels like you’re the only one who calls me that?”

 _“Angie_ ,” she said—it was just how she started her sentences, like she was about to talk some sense into him. “ _Of course I can do that, I can literally get up right now, throw myself through your window and call you ‘Angie’ for the entire night, I will scream it to the rooftops in an attempt to intimidate your stupid fuckin’ boss and then he won’t call you it anymore, Angie, because I just say it better, because I’m not a total piece of shit, Angie.”_

He sighed. “Thanks.”

 _”Don’t mention it, Angie. You’re fucking awesome, Angie. I know you’d do the same thing for me, if I was in your shoes.”_ He really didn’t—he couldn’t imagine Cherri Bomb in his shoes, she probably would have found a way to get out of the contract by now. She probably would have bombed the studio at this point. “ _Listen, Angie, one of these days, I’m literally going to go to Valentino and I’m gonna pay to get you for an hour, and then we’re gonna spend all of it planning how to kill him. It’ll be like, the ultimate ‘fuck you.’”_

”I don’t think I could do that,” he said. “I wouldn’t be able ta charge ya the usual amount I charge other broads.”

” _It’s okay, you can charge me extra, Angie. We’ll just like, rob him on top of it. It’ll be fun, Angie.”_ It did sound like fun. Fat Nuggets squirmed on top of him and then got up to move towards his phone, stepping on his arm.

”Ow! Nuggs, stop—“ Fat Nuggets did it again, oinked directly into the phone.

Cherri’s gasp was loud. “ _Holy shit, how’s my favorite pig in the whole wide world doing?”_

”I’m not sure if Fat Nuggets understands phones,” he said. “He just hears your voice and expects treats, immediately.”

_”Because he deserves them, Angie. He’s the best pig and he deserves all the treats—Angie, the next time I see you, you need to bring Baby Nuggs with you, because I just keeping buying treats to give him the next time I see him, and I’m running out of room, there is so many treats for him. But also, I refuse to give you any of them, because I bought them specifically for Nuggs, for me to give to him, and I’m pretty sure he just uses me for the treats.”_

”Yeah,” he said. “He’s a manipulative lil’ piggy like that. If I were to like, double die up here, he might just eat my body because I can no longer give ‘im treats—and honestly, I’m okay with it.”

” _I’d find him before it got to that_ ,” Cherri said. “ _In the aftermath of your second death, I’ll take care of Baby Nuggs for you. Worst comes to worst, he’ll get like, one of your arms, Angie.”_

”That’s fine,” he said. “I have a lot of them. I can spare one for my pig.”

_”This sounds a lot like some weird dialogue I found in a fanfiction, and I don’t know why I’m thinking about that, but that’s what came to mind.”_

”You read fanfiction?”

 _”Yeah,”_ she said. _“I was bored. I got into this one writer—dunno what the fuck is up with their username... Bbyfeathrdustr?”_

”Baby Feather Duster,” he said aloud.

” _No—there like, isn’t an ‘a’ in ‘baby’ and there’s no e’s before the r’s, you’re saying it wrong_.”

”I think I know who wrote your fanfiction _,”_ he said.

” _Don’t tell me, I like the mystery—I’m imagining a really short chick in a fifties’ poodle skirt who spends all of her time cleaning._ ”

But she was so right—he wanted to tell her! “What have you been up to?” He asked. “I haven’t seen you in awhile.”

” _I’ve been doing a whole lot of nothing._ _I mostly slept, and sometimes, I wandered to the window to demon watch.”_

”Fun,” he said.

 _”Yeah. Demons on this side of the pentagram are weird—I saw this one guy, he was really fuckin’ short and looked pissed off. Some spider demon._ ” He frowned. “ _Kind of cute, though.”_

”He sounds like my brother.”

_”If he is your brother, can you hook me up with him?”_

”No,” he said. “My brother’s off limits. He’s a real dick sometimes, too, I’m doin’ you a favor, toots. Also, no, don’t date my brother, just, at all.”

_”I never said anything about dating.”_

”That’s even worse,” he said. “I don’t want ya to have sex with my brother—why the fuck is he your type?”

 _”I like my men short and dark and angry,”_ Cherri said. _“Or I like them tall, thin, and in a suit.”_

”I’ll never understand your girlcrush on Vox,” he said. “Like, what the fuck— _Vox?“_

_”I like my men tall, thin, and in a suit, and he is tall, thin and in a suit!”_

”He’s literally a TV, Cherri,” he said. “A really breakable one, at that, you’ve _seen_ his Voxtagram, right?”

Cherri laughed. _“I’d treat him better than that—he’s rich, too, so like, if I make him fall in love with me, I’m set for life or some shit, Angie.”_

”I don’t think he’s into women.”

_”Well, fuck me! He’s so hot. I saw a selfie of him and Velvet, and I fucking melted into my fucking couch.”_

”You’re a bi disaster, Cherri,” he said.

” _You know it, Angie_!”

He rubbed at his eyes. “...I don’t wanna go to sleep,” he said. “And I’m exhausted.”

” _You should get some sleep, Angie,”_ she said. _“You go a little crazy when you go too long without sleep—you can call me after work tomorrow, though. We’ll talk more about how we’re gonna fuck over Valentino then, okay?”_

”Okay,” he said. “Night, Cherri.”

_”Night, Angie.”_

He shut his phone off and set it down, laying on his back. Fat Nuggets settled by his side and sighed. He focused on petting his pig until his eyes closed.

_One of those dreams—a part of his home from life blended into his room at the hotel, he was propped up in bed watching his mother and sister run around the kitchen, while his brother drank from some dark colored bottle. Molly was tending to a pot about to boil over—he didn’t know what was in it. His mother was trying to open a jar of something and failing, “Okay, which of my children loves their mother?”_

_No one said anything. She tried to open the jar again, but was still struggling to twist the lid off. “...Really? Are you_ fucking _kidding me?” A door somewhere in the house opened. “None of my children love me.”_

_”Sounds ‘bout right,” Arackniss said—their mother laughed and slapped him upside the head before trading the bottle for the jar. Arackniss couldn’t get it open either, but struggled with it for a minute._

_”Where’s your brother?” She asked Molly._

_She made a vague gesture with a wooden spoon, but nowhere towards him._

_”Over here,” he said, but his mother didn’t turn to look at him._

_”Anthony, if I look over and I see you looking like a ten cent whore, I’m gonna snap my cap,” she said, her tone chipper, smile strained. “I will faint.”_

_”He’s at least a twenty five cent whore,” Molly said—her voice didn’t sound like her’s, but he wasn’t sure what her voice even sounded like anymore. Fuck, he really did miss his sister—what kind of a brother forgot the sound of their sister’s voice?_

_”If I see you looking like a slut, I’m gonna have a heart attack and die—right here. On the kitchen floor. This is not an exaggeration, Tony.”_

_”Oh, be nice to Tony!” Molly exclaimed with that... that_ voice _. He didn’t like it—he felt uncomfortable. She looked over at him. “...Ma. Anthony looks... different.”_

_”He’s wearing makeup, Molls. Tony, if your father catches you looking like that, he’s gonna flip—why are you dressed like a prostitute?”_

_”Why is your kitchen in my bedroom?” He asked, but no one responded._

_Molly blinked—she was still staring at him. That pot was boiling over, but she wasn’t paying attention, just staring at him._

_”Molly? The pot. Molly, the pot._ LA PENTOLA _!”_

 _She turned back to the stove, but kept glancing over her shoulder at him—she looked different too. Not super different, she had the same olive skin and voluminous hair. Arackniss glanced over at him—and then proceeded to stare at him like he grew an extra four arms, which, to be fair, he realized he had. “_ Santo cazzo _!”_

” _Language,” their mother scolded, still not looking._

_”Ma, Anthony’s a fucking spider.”_

_”Is that what they’re calling them nowadays?” She still couldn’t open that jar. “I’m sure your brother just needs to find the right woman, don’t worry about it,_ miele.”

 _”Why are you so fuckin’_ PALE? _” Arackniss asked. “Is that hair? What the fuck!”_

_”Seriously,” Molly said. “Is he okay? Tony—why do you look so weird?”_

_”Why is my bed in your kitchen?”_

_”Probably a good thing she ain’t lookin’ at him,” Arackniss murmured—despite his horror at how Angel Dust looked, he had four arms, and eight eyes, in a demonic form like his, but he wasn’t questioning that. “Ma_ would _have a fuckin’ heart attack, say somethin’ about Hell, would up and fuckin’ die over that bullshit.”_

_”She would, too,” he said._

_”Oh, fuck this.” His mother took the jar she was holding and threw it on the floor. It shattered into a thousand pieces, easily—but she just stepped over the glass like it was nothing. “Molly,_ where _is your brother?”_

 _Molly turned a glance at him, gaze flat. “Are you even_ looking?” _She asked._

He woke up to Nat Nuggets lying on his groin—it was incredibly uncomfortable. He groaned, checked the time. It was about time to wake up anyway. He shifted beneath him and tried to slowly nudge his pig off before sitting up. He did not feel nearly rested enough to get on through the day, but the whole point of his double shifts always seemed to be that Val liked it when he came to work exhausted, too tired to fight back—and he was okay with it, would always tell Angel most of his job was just to lie down and look pretty anyway.

He thought he was too tired to look pretty, but he figured he’d try anyway.

Niffty was already awake, as per usual, walking through the lobby. She was holding a watering can and poured it into a potted plant in the corner of the room. Despite being on opposite sides of the room, Alastor and Husk shared a look, and the moment Niffty turned her back (“Morning, Angel! Morning, Alastor!”) Husk grabbed the plant—which was obviously plastic and fake, too dark a green with stems too glossy to be real—and went to go dump the water in the pot into something before putting it back, before Niffty noticed.

“You need me to watch your pig again?” Husk asked. “You’re not working like you did yesterday, right?”

”Nah,” he said. “Do ya think ya can? I know ya gave ‘im off ta Vaggie last night, ya had to watch ‘im for a while.”

”It’s fine,” he sighed. I can watch him—I just can’t enjoy it.”

He smiled. “Thanks, Husky.”

He handed the pig to him over the bar. “I’m gonna need a lot more limes for your fucking pig, Angel.”

“He deserves all the limes,” Angel said. “I mean, look at ‘im! Have ya ever seen a sweeter pig?” No—Husk hadn’t, there was no possible way. There was no sweeter pig than his in the entirety of hell, ever.

He ignored the fact that everything hurt—this was to be expected with how painful his afterlife was in general. “Thanks, Husky.”

Valentino was smoking one of his cigars when he came in. “There you are.” He grinned. He tried not to shiver. “I was worried you were goin’ to skip out on work after last night, Angel Cakes.”

He swallowed, and decided he was going to avoid saying _no_ to him. The night before he had said it a few times, but it had just made him angrier. “I wouldn’t, Mista Valentino.”

His gaze scraped over him, like he was looking for any of the bruises beneath his white fur on his body, or a noticeable limp. “Good boy,” he said. “Some clients are going to pay some good money for you—you need to be on your best behavior for them, sugar, you’re on thin ice as it is.”

”Wouldn’t have guessed,” he muttered.

”Speak up, baby cakes.”

”Yes, sir.”

”That’s much better.” He flicked a small piece of ash into an ashtray on his desk. “I like you when you behave, Angie.” He reached over and Angel wondered if Valentino was going to hit him again or something, but instead he just gently cupped his chin, stroked his cheek with a thumb. “If any of your clients offer you tips, you’re going to have to hand them over to me—no more games, baby. You gotta start paying off that debt somehow.”

”Right, Mista Valentino.”

He felt himself stiffen against his touch—never a good thing, Val never cared if he was scared to be around him, he was expected to suck it up and deal. He forced himself to exhale slowly and relax. “Good boy,” he said, and even though he was barely looking at Angel Dust and he couldn’t but feel like he was one misstep from a repeat of last night, there’s a terrible, terrible part of him that really needed to hear Val say that, to be reminded that he still had some use to him.

Why? Because it meant he was safe enough, for now? Because he couldn’t handle Valentino getting angry all over again? Or did some part of him somehow manage to stand Valentino enough to want to please him, even with all the shit he’d put him through.

Maybe it was best not to think about. Not right now—he was tired and in pain and just wanted to get the work day over with.

When he got back to the hotel, the first thing he noticed was Niffty was at the bar, sitting on a stool and drinking, but she looked fucking miserable and Husk was nodding his head behind the bar while Vaggie held onto her shoulder, either in a comforting gesture, or to make sure she didn’t fall off the stool and crack her tiny head open.

He got closer. Niffty was holding a glass with both of her hands. It didn’t look to be her usual virgin-rum-and-coke-that-was-literally-just-soda, because instead, it looked brightly colored and also, Niffty was very obviously drunk, in the middle of an intoxicated rant. “I didn’t get any sleep last,” she slurred. “Because I was too busy thinking about...” She rubbed at her eye, gaze a million miles away. “...about one conversation with Alastor when he called me a ‘dear,’ and I said, ‘but you’re a deer!’ And he laughed, and I didn’t _get it.”_ Vaggie looked like she was trying to hold back her laughter, but she was managing. “I still hate myself for it—when he was done laughing, he just kind of looked at me—I didn’t... I didn’t understand it until, like... a week later.” She groaned and slammed her forehead into the bar counter. “Why was I even _born?”_

He took a step closer. “Niffty, are you drinking?”

She perked up. “Oh. _Hiiii,_ Angel. Husk made me a... thing. Because I was mad about... something.”

“She figured out the plant she was watering was plastic,” Vaggie said.

”Four!” Niffty exclaimed. “Four moths!” She probably meant _months._ “No one _told me._ Is that why the carpet was wet the other day, did the water just spill out of the plant because the plant didn’t need the water? Is that how it works?” She groaned. “I was so worried about him! I thought he was sick or something, dying... Because he wasn’t growing, you know? No. That bastard isn’t dead. He was never _alive._ ” She slumped over, staring into the depths of her glass. “This is how I know I’m in hell. Things like the plant.” She reached in, pulled out an ice cube and ate it with much, irritated crunching.

Husk slid a drink over to Angel Dust—he already knew what he liked, Angel Dust wasn’t usually one for routine except for when it came to drinking and his drugs—and every day of his afterlife for a decade or two. Moving into the hotel had just been developing a slightly new one.

”Aren’t there usually cherries?” He asked.

”Your pig ate them all,” Husk said. “We have no cherries, limes, or ice.” Niffty continued to chew her ice—he didn’t need to wonder what had happened to it. “I’m officially running the worst bar in Hell.”

“I love your bar!” Niffty exclaimed. “And I love you! _Anata wa saikōdesu!”_

Husk nodded—Angel had no idea what that meant. Niffty was still drunk, and apparently, she was a chatty drunk. “Vaggie, your socks are so _cool_.”

”Thanks.”

”I _love_ them,” Niffty said. “How are you so hot? Is it the height? I feel like it’s the height, I’m like, four feet tall. Everyone always tells me how cute I am, but I don’t want to be cute anymore, I want to be _hot_ , you know? _Mature._ Like, why do people not think I’m hot?”

”Niffty,” Angel said. “You’re plenty hot.”

Her eye watered. “But you think men are hot! Do you think I look like a man?” She sniffed.

”What?” Shit. “No, no—no, that’s not what I meant—“ Vaggie still looked like she was trying not to laugh but she managed to regain her composure pretty quickly. “Niffty, I _wish_ I looked like ya—you’re the prettiest girl in this joint. Ya rock your poodle skirts, y’know that?”

”Aw! You guys are so nice to me when I’m drunk!” She wipes her eye. “How drunk am I? How much alcohol was that?”

”Literally a singular shot,” Husk said.

”How have I not passed out yet?” Niffty said. “That’s pretty good for me. Oh, wow, I really hope I don’t pass out, that’d be embarrassing. My head kind of hurts, is that what happens when your drunk?”

”Yeah,” Angel said. “Just about.”

”Oh,” Niffty said. “...I’m really tired. And I’m still really sad about that plant.”

”We know,” Husk told her.

”I named him Sharon! I loved Sharon!” She groaned. “I need to get to bed before my words start slurring together and I pass out, because I always do that when I drink, and it’s not good.” She jumped off of the stool and onto her feet—and then face planted. “Ow.” She got back up, legs shaking and grabbed her stool. “Damnit.”

He decided he didn’t want to watch this anymore and sighed. “Let me help ya, Niffty.”

He just went ahead and scooped her up—she did not weigh much. “Oh, _thanks,_ Angel! You’re really tall, did you know that? Like... at least six feet tall.”

She wasn’t wrong. “You know, I didn’t.”

”You didn’t know you were that tall?” Niffty asked. “Wow, that’s kind of weird.”

”Yeah.”

He had never been in Niffty’s room before, but it looked exactly as he imagined it would, in that it was one of the tidiest rooms in the hotel. Her bed was made, sheets tucked beneath the mattress so tightly, he wondered if the fabric was going to rip. He put her down on the mattress and she smiled brightly. “It’s so nice to finally have friends again,” she said. “And you guys are so _nice.”_

”You’re nice too,” he said. “You’re also really fuckin’ drunk, Niffty. You need to sleep it off.”

He noticed there was an object on the bedside table, the only other thing being a neat little lamp—a thin, slender little silver chain, knotted up by the base of the lamp. He frowned—even drunk, Niffty followed his gaze easily. “Oh,” she said. “That was my mother’s—she wore it every day of her afterlife. I found her pretty quickly after I died, and she was so lonely... I spent awhile with her, maybe about a decade? She didn’t have anyone else, and it seemed like a safer bet, you know? Then just wandering the depths of hell and engaging in... whatever you do in Hell! Wore it everyday, around her wrist, even on her last day. I was all she had—it wasn’t enough. ...I don’t like looking at it. I don’t know why I’ve kept it.”

”That’s horrible,” he said.

”It is. She really missed my father, but also, she hated him. More than anything else. But I don’t think that was a new thing.”

”Damn,” he said. “Can’t say I relate. My parents were madly in love for the entirety of their lives—and from what I can tell, their afterlives.” He was pretty sure, anyway—he couldn’t imagine his parents any differently. “My father used ta come home every night from work with a flower for her—she liked her roses, he liked seeing her happy.”

”That’s so sweet,” Niffty said. “Aren’t they down here?”

”We don’t talk,” he said. “...They don’t like me much.”

She blinked up at him, still drunk. “Did your mother throw herself down the stairs when she realized she was pregnant too?”

No. No, she hadn’t. He turned to Niffty. “Yours did that?”

She nodded. “It didn’t do much, just broke her arm. She still had me—she was not thrilled. Got even worse when her husband cheated on her with a junkie broad.”

”Oh, wow.”

”Yeah,” she said. “...Since my marriage is kinda void in Hell and I don’t even know where my husband is right now, I just hope one day, I can get in a good relationship. It doesn’t have to be long. I just want to be able to know, you know? That not all marriages are like my parents’ or mine, you know? You know?”

”Yeah,” he responded. “I know.” He stood up. “Get some rest, Niffty—you’re too drunk to be doin’... most things. Most things ‘cept sleep.”

“Okay,” she said. “But if you guys like, need me for anything.”

”We won’t—just sleep it off and sober up. Night, babe.” He shut the door behind him and went back to the bar. “Why didn’t you assholes tell Niffty she was waterin’ a plastic plant?”

“I thought she knew,” Vaggie said.

”I kind of thought it was funny,” Husk said. It was a dickish thing to say, but he was holding Fat Nuggets, and anyone who held Fat Nuggets so tenderly could do no wrong—it was how it worked.

He took his pig from Husk. “Thanks for watchin’ him, Husk—he gets so lonely by ‘imself.” He hugged his pig tightly. “Such a good pig!”

”The best pig,” Husk said, and for a minute, he was almost smiling, even though his words came out a defeated sigh. “Nice of you to put Niffty to sleep like that—she’s been like this for a while, at least until she first took a sip of her drink. ...She wrote fanfiction and made me read it.”

”Was it any good?”

”The dialogue was written entirely in Japanese.”

”Oh.”

”The _one_ language I don’t speak,” he said. He took a swig of his bottle and stared at him flatly. “...You look like shit.”

”I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, because aside from Niffty and—let’s admit it: Alastor—I’m the hottest person in this hotel.”

”Alastor?” Vaggie asked, tone flat. “...You think the radio demon’s hot?”

“You don’t?” Angel asked.

”No,” she responded.

”Oh, right.” He took his drink—it wasn’t all that good, and it had warmed while he put Niffty to bed, but he was trying to be nice to her and she was hella drunk—wasn’t that good of a cocktail, anyway, he reminded himself. “You’re a lesbian, you don’t know anything about attractive men.”

”Even if I wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be attracted to him.” She looked at Husk. “Husk, you’re pan, right? Do you think he’s hot?”

”Yeah.” Angel wrapped two of his arms to keep Nuggets on his lap and propped up the arm that wasn’t holding the drink on the counter to rest his shin on his palm. “Ya like your men seven feet tall, murderous and deer?”

Husk was quiet for a moment. Nuggets squirmed in his lap—he took use of his two other arms, drawing them out of _wherever_ they went when they weren’t in use and pet him, though it might have just riled him up more. Vaggie and him stared at him, and he just stared back, before finally, he answered, “...Why the _fuck_ am I here?”

He really shouldn’t let his pig sit on top of the vanity he did his usual makeup at, but damnit, he loved his pig and he loved looking at his pig, and it was better than looking at his reflection—he just reminded himself he looked amazing, because recently, he couldn’t bring himself to look at his reflection. He never saw it.

He took a makeup wipe to his eyes—it came off easily, though it mostly smeared and just left him rubbing harshly. Sometimes, the makeup came off easier, the cheap stuff that it was, but that wasn’t saying much since all of it was expensive. It had never really mattered too much, because when it came to shoots or clients, they _liked_ to see mascara running, smeared lipstick, smudged eyeliner—but that just made him feel weird when his makeup was wrong and he wasn’t getting dick.

There was still a little bit of black eyeliner he was trying to rub off—he had had a _female_ client today. She had been kind of impressed by his makeup skills—and then had proceeded to be a bitch the rest of the hour, and he had straight up denied her tip because he didn’t want to go to Valentino with it. The worst part was that _he_ would charge a dame extra because he really didn’t like them and he wanted to be compensated enough to have to put in the effort sleeping with them did, but Valentino didn’t care so much when he was figuring out Angel’s clients—he would have thought his pimp would like to shake down some johns for everything he could. Maybe Valentino just didn’t care.

He blinked—he got enough of the makeup off. He’d take a shower later, and it’d probably get the rest off, but he was tired and just wanted to hold his pig. “Come to mama, Nuggs.”

His bed was more comfortable than he remembered. It gave beneath his body and he slowly let out a sigh—he didn’t think he was gonna really leave his room tonight. He’d relax a bit, take a shower later, and just cuddle with his pig and catch up on sleep. It sounded amazing.

Naturally, the peacefulness didn’t last too long. Someone knocked on his door.

He groaned—why _now?_ Maybe if he ignored it, they’d go away. There was another knock—and Charlie shouted through the door, “Angel Dust? Are you up?”

At the source of the noise, Fat Nuggets got up and moved towards the door, scratching at it like it’d open that way. He sighed and got up—it was nice while it lasted.

When he opened the door, Fat Nuggets stepped out, walked in a circle around Charlie and then went back to bed. Angel didn’t know what it achieved, but he didn’t have much time to think about it.

“Did ya need somethin’?” He asked.

”I just wanted to...” She cleared her throat, shifted on her legs. “Speak with you about something. Is now a bad time?”

He sighed. “I guess not.” He stepped out of the doorway and Charlie followed him in, shutting the door behind her gently. “What’s with Vaggie in the lobby? She looks like she’s in a good mood.”

”Oh,” Charlie said. “We... made up is all.”

”Didn’t you make up yesterday?” He noticed the hickey on Charlie’s neck. “Second thought—it’s fine, I don’t really wanna know too much ‘bout your sex life, anyway.”

Charlie blushed, but just continued on in the conversation. “It’s actually about something Vaggie brought up with me last night.” She cleared her throat, the blush slowly fading off her face like she was willing it and the embarrassment away. “I... We’re both... You’re...” She took a deep breath. “We’re both really proud of the progress you’ve been making, Angel Dust—she said she saw you in the lobby, before she went to bed, and um...”

He had a horrible feeling he knew where this was going—but if Charlie _said_ it, he might flip out. He didn’t know what he’d do, he’d probably scream, or throw up, or faint from exhaustion, or drink a gallon of vodka, or punch someone. The last thing he needed was everyone in the fucking hotel to know he was a weak coward who bent to Valentino’s every will and command because he didn’t have a fucking choice—it was pathetic.

Charlie stumbled over her words for a minute, their eye contact strained. Angel Dust thought of that powder on Valentino’s desk last night—he should have taken it. If he had, Valentino would have just told him to go through him now, to get his drugs, instead of selling his body, because Valentino owned his body.

When had it become that? Earlier in his afterlife, it wasn’t _selling his body_ , it was just... a service. Not that much different from shining shoes, or waiting tables, or whatever the fuck other people did. He fucked someone, he got paid—it was a thing he could do, with he skills he possessed, and it was something he _wanted_ to do. There hadn’t been as much opportunities he had wanted, really, to express his sexuality in the nineteen thirties and forties, when he had known he was gay—but in Hell, no one gave a shit. He could be as gay as he fucking wanted, he could pole dance and take off his clothes and fuck whoever gave him the money he wanted, because he wanted to, and he didn’t have to worry about anything else for a short while. He had had enough money. Plenty of drugs. Even though he regretted signing that contract, that first while under that contract with Valentino had been amazing. It had been like a dream.

He didn’t think he could ever feel as confident and happy with himself as he had at that point in time—he’d kill to feel like that again, and even though he now viewed that period with a lens bittered by the present, by the monster Valentino had revealed himself to be, he still did kind of miss those times. How did that work?

Charlie sighed. “...I don’t want to pry,” she said. “I... know you don’t want me to ask. I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, or... scared, or threatened, or weak—I just... We... have an idea about him. One we don’t like.” Great. She was talking about Valentino. And he was thinking about him.

That amount of power he had over him—even when he wasn’t really around Valentino, it was like he was still there, controlling every aspect of his life. Angel wondered if he’d ever get free from him—maybe redemption wouldn’t be that bad, if it meant he could flee to Heaven to escape his pimp, though a part of him was so scared by Valentino, it felt almost like Heaven wouldn’t keep him safe.

“Angel Dust?” Charlie asked—he wondered when the fuck he started going by that. He couldn’t tell. Right now, he hated that name. Granted, he had hated Anthony, but that was more because his father had given that name, that everyone he had hated had called him that. _Better than drugs,_ clients would tell him, all satisfied, either holding a shot glass, or a cigar, or grabbing their wallet. _That was amazing,_ and Angel couldn’t feel anything amazing. Everything kind of sucked. “...I don’t want to rush you. But I’m so glad you went to that... support group, group therapy thing. I know you have your doubts, but I’m glad your trying, and I want you to know...”

He focused on the now, the present, set his gaze back on Charlie. “...Vaggie and I are...” She hesitated, her voice wavered. “...We really care about you. And we care about your health, too—and we just want to make sure your safe, and I know you might not want our help on all aspects of your life, I don’t expect that one night to make this huge difference, but...” Her gaze was soft, eyes dark, smile gentle. “...I want you to know you can come to us for help. Whenever you want it. And you can take your time. It’s... fine. But we want to help, and you’re... you’re trying. And I really, really can’t thank you enough for it.”

How long was he gonna last? He couldn’t say anything to Charlie—what was there to say? Already, he wanted some more of his namesake. His mind drifted to that perfect, white line on Val’s desk—ghosts of Valentino’s hands skimmed his sides, felt through his clothes, on his ribs, like he was being bent over his desk all over again, staring at that line of PCP because he didn’t want to look at anything else.

He did have some more in his room—but how long was that gonna last? His supply would run out eventually, and he had little to no money to actually buy any more. Did he risk Valentino’s wrath by going behind his back to get drug money? And granted, money in general would be nice to have, not just for drugs—did he go to Valentino and put himself in debt to fix that? Did he get into contact with a client that’d be paying Angel Dust’s earned money to Valentino and then see if he could find a gun with holy bullets and put one in his brain so he never had to deal with getting clean?

None of these were options.

Charlie sighed and turned her back, ready to leave—he shot a glance at that basket. _Charlie’s_ basket, full of his drugs—another bout of self loathing rose into his chest, he felt weak. Eventually, he wasn’t going to have a choice—it’d be get clean and deal without some PCP or resign himself to doing whatever the fuck Valentino wanted from him for however long Valentino wanted—either way, he thought the end to any of that suffering would be a long ways away or just an overall ugly end. He wasn’t sure what Valentino did to old stars when he moved onto new ones, wasn’t sure if those were things that really even happened—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Soon enough, he wouldn’t get a choice. Didn’t he want to take it, while it was still a choice? He still had an option.

”I wanna get clean.”

The words were out before he could stop them—Charlie froze in the doorway and slowly turned around, hand still on the doorknob. “Not like, totally clean,” he said. “Because I don’t care about the alcohol, and I can’t quit my job anytime soon, but...”

This felt stupid. This felt impossible.

Saying this, while Charlie stared at him, was unpleasant—like snorting angel dust. And just like angel dust, the pay off would hopefully be better than the act, and unlike angel dust, it might honestly be somewhat healthy for him.

”I’m sick of it, okay? I’m...” He stretched that word a bit too long, hesitant to continue, but forced himself to anyways. Sometimes, you just had to suck it up and do what you know you needed to, even when you didn’t want to—except he was used to needing to do these things to avoid violence, not needing to do it for his own health. _I’m not even sure if I’m worried about being reliant on these drugs so much as I’m reliant on him._

”...I don’t know where to start. I’m incredibly doubtful of this whole redemption thing, but I’m willing to give it a shot, and I’m probably gonna regret everything I’m sayin’ by tomorrow mornin’, because in all honesty, this isn’t my first time thinkin’ for a sec’, I actually have a shot at gettin’ clean, and it’s never worked out fa me before—but I’ll try it again.”

Her expression brightened. “You really mean it, Angel Dust?”

He really wished he didn’t! “Yeah.”

She all but bounced on her heels, grabbing a set of his hands. “Oh, Angel Dust, that’s amazing! Vaggie and I would love to help you! I... I’m not entirely sure how to start, either, but... I think we can do a bit of research, there must be resources and stuff.” Yeah, he was sure there was resources for addicts in Hell. “I’ll talk to Vaggie about it, we’ll look into it some more—oh, this is great, Angel Dust!” She squeezes both of his hands tightly.

He thinks he’s already regretting it—he can already imagine, sitting up in bed at night, thinking about the first time Val manhandled him, pushing him face down into a couch or a bed or something he couldn’t remember in the slight drunken haze he had been in at the time, and he wouldn’t be able to do a few lines to dull the aching memory.

Oh, god, he couldn’t stop thinking about it now—one of Valentino’s hands on the back of his head, pushing his face into something soft, feeling like he couldn’t breathe, feeling _cold._ The rest of his hands tugging his clothes off, one i particular stopping and thumbing his boots against his skin—that burning hot bolt of panic that raced through him, putting his cold body into shock as he insisted, but basically begged Valentino that his boots stayed on, to at least let him keep his boots on, because in the heat of the moment, that had been what mattered to Angel—not getting Valentino to stop or anything, but keeping his fucking shoes on so he didn’t have to see how ugly his toes were.

Waking up the next morning. Feeling like shit. Knowing what had happened, briefly feeling angry at himself and Val because he had struggled, he hadn’t wanted that, until he had quit struggling and just hoped he’d stop soon. Finding out Val had texted him, told him to take the day off in the sweetest wording he could have chosen.

Giving him a syringe when he went back to work after that, full of Hell knew what. He hadn’t known, hadn’t cared—Valentino was a rat bastard, and Angel had hated what he had done to him, but goddamnit, Val knew him too well, knew all he had needed was a little bit of persuasion to let it go and relax a bit, to continue on with his job—he didn’t do needle drugs too often, never liked the idea of needles and Valentino _loathed_ the idea of his employees having any track marks, that must have been how much Valentino had wanted to silence him. Angel didn’t care so much about anything when he was high enough.

Fuck. He was already regretting this—those memories always got worse during the night, and he always smoked something to dull it. He couldn’t do that if he was getting clean.

Was it too late to take it back? To tell Charlie he had changed his mind, it was a stupid idea anyway?

...No. He’d stick with it—maybe without the drugs, he could hate Valentino more. Maybe there was better ways to deal with it all—because he still hated Valentino for what he did, and drugs didn’t really change that, being high didn’t change anything.

Charlie must have caught his expression, his doubts having multiplied. “...It’s okay if this... is a difficult decision. I can’t imagine how difficult fighting addiction’s gonna be, but...” She squeezed his hand again, rather awkwardly. “Why don’t you think it over a bit more? I don’t want to push you before you’re ready—“

”No,” he said, firmly. “If you let me think this over, I’m gonna bail on it—I need ta decide now, and... I wanna get clean. Help me get clean.”

”You’re really doing this?” So much for the faith she had in him, huh? “You’re accepting our help?”

”That’s why we’re here, right?” He asked. “Redemption and shit. Kinda need your help for that.”

Charlie nodded eagerly. “This is gonna be great! I’m...” She beamed—let go of his hands and instead let her fingers curl against her palms, elbows bent so they were at her chest as she grinned. “I’m so proud of you, Angel Dust.”

Without another word, she stepped out and shut the door behind her, leaving to, probably, go tell Vaggie the good news. He sighed and looked back at his pig, scooping him up again. “Redemption,” he mumbled. For a minute, it felt like he was back at his old apartment, but then it—didn’t. It was like the world had flickered around him a moment there. He sat down on his bed, listened to the springs squeak as he slid Fat Nuggets into his lap.

...Maybe this meant something. Maybe it didn’t. He wasn’t sure how deeply to think into it. He didn’t want to dismiss the idea—but he wasn’t sure if he could even let his pig know that he almost kind of hoped it was possible, and then felt guilty for thinking that. What good was Heaven when he’d be leaving behind Cherri? And Fat Nuggets? He wouldn’t be able to see any of them—he wouldn’t be able to piss of Vaggie, or flirt with Husk. And he couldn’t be nice to Niffty in Heaven.

He was thinking too much into a thing he wasn’t sure was even possible—so much went into it, and he didn’t want to mumble all of his thoughts about Heaven and Hell, and the intricacies of redemption and evil to his pig, so he just brought Nuggs closer to him and mumbled, “I guess that’s why we’re here.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, the joke was when Katie Killjoy was talking about the gays but described them like stereotypical gangsters—just one small thing I thought was funny, and I have like, thousands of words to add onto one lame joke. I’ve like, reached over forty thousand words on this. I also originally had a joke where, during the support group/group therapy thing, Charlie stood on her chair like she was gonna sing before deciding that it wasn’t the right medium, but I thought that was a lame joke, so it only gets a mention in the notes instead of being used.


End file.
